


Communication

by ohlooktheresabee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Assumptions, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Consent Issues, Demisexuality, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, It's all alright in the end, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, Love, M/M, Miscommunication, No Aftercare, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Panic Attacks, Relationship Issues, Sex, Sexual Inexperience, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Slash, Subdrop, Therapy, Under-negotiated Kink, Vanilla Kink, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlooktheresabee/pseuds/ohlooktheresabee
Summary: Sherlock and John finally make the leap from friends to lovers, but skip the discussion beforehand. That’s what makes it fun and sexy, right?WRONG.Both eager to please the other, but both making too many assumptions, Sherlock and John make a few missteps before they finally manage to reach an understanding.Or:An exploration of navigating relationships and intimacy when you're asexual, but don't know what that means... YET.NOW COMPLETE.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 196
Kudos: 208





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is a departure from my regular, ‘minor angst but funny’ fics. This one is more of an exploration of what it is to be on the asexual spectrum, when you don’t even know what that is. Many of you might see yourself in the thoughts and actions of one (or both) of these characters.
> 
> Sherlock is emotionally vulnerable in this fic because he has not been shown much kindness, and therefore is willing to put up with quite a lot that he shouldn’t - and does not speak up when he should. John is equally poor at communicating and inexperienced with lovers like Sherlock (both physically and emotionally), and they end up in some situations that are not healthy. Nothing too dramatic, but unhealthy all the same. John is not a bad guy in this fic, just unaware. It will all be alright in the end, but please heed the tags and if the angst is going to be too much without the resolution, hit that subscribe button and we will see you back here when the fic is complete. I promise a sane, healthy and happy ending. 
> 
> Onwards!

Part of Sherlock’s overactive brain was desperately trying to work out what the difference between this morning and any other morning was, while the rest of it had dissolved into babbling incoherently and trying to remember how to breathe properly. 

He and John had been working on a case, one that while interesting, was statistically no more interesting than many of the other cases they had worked together. Wife poisons the husband by coating his phone screen - his second phone which he used only to contact his lovers, the existence of which of course she was not supposed to be aware - with Dimethylmercury. Extremely inventive, but as usual it was the human element that had let her down, as she hadn’t been able to fake being the mourning widow with any degree of believability. An offhand remark, a faked appointment, and a unique personalized phone case had been enough for Sherlock to consider her the main suspect.

An interesting case, which had led to a fast car chase, a hunt through an abandoned church and graveyard and finally a nail biting arrest scenario where the woman was eventually persuaded that death by brain rot of the type she caused her husband, was in fact not preferable to life imprisonment and three square meals a day - then back to the Yard for a statement in the early hours, and into a taxi bound for 221B. So far, so normal. 

Normal. Routine. Standard.

So why was John Watson currently kissing him against the staircase like their very lives depended on it?

***********************************************

It really had seemed to come out of nowhere, at least to Sherlock. He had been living with John for just over a year, and yes while there had been plenty of banter that might be mistaken for flirting, and some looks lasting a tad too long to be classed as firmly platonic, he had long ago accepted that nothing of that nature was going to happen between them - as John Watson was, rather emphatically, not gay. The doctor had in fact stated this several times, most recently in a warehouse to Irene Adler in order to… well, actually Sherlock wasn’t a hundred percent sure what the point of that little interaction had been, if he were honest. In any case, Sherlock had accepted that there would never be anything romantic or physical between him and John, which had made falling helplessly in love with him all the more inconvenient. 

He really hadn’t been able to help it. John was just… well, he was very _John_ . Intelligent, loyal, clever. Strong, funny, handsome. Intuitive, charming, dangerous… Sherlock felt he hadn’t really stood a chance. And John _liked him_ . This was the most unexpected thing of all - that this charismatic ex-army doctor actually liked _him_ . The first few times John had praised him in public, though he thought he had hidden it well, Sherlock had just about combusted on the spot. And recently, John had started telling people that they were _friends!_

Sherlock had resolved to enjoy this… this friendship, as much as possible and for as long as it lasted. He was, after all, highly intelligent, and knew that there was an expiration date - if for no other reason than eventually John was going to start remembering the names of the irritating women he insisted upon dating, and one day be intrigued by one of them above all of the others: intrigued enough to have a serious relationship. Serious relationships and Sherlock Holmes did not mix - Sherlock had enough failed attempts in his history to have accepted that as well.

So, either that would be the end of their friendship, or John was finally going to be driven off by Sherlock being… well, being himself. Sure, he was ‘amazing’ and ‘extraordinary’ now, but give it enough time and John would tire of his ways, as had everyone else. Sherlock just needed to prolong the inevitable in any way that made itself apparent. 

*********************

Upon arriving back at Baker Street, Sherlock had jumped out of the cab as usual, leaving John behind to pay, and been right in the middle of asking John if he wanted to wait up and go to Speedy’s when it opened in an hour’s time for breakfast. 

“... but I can order extra toast this time because…”

John had grabbed the back of his coat, stopping him on the stairs, but Sherlock’s voice had been on auto and continued on. John had climbed up so his feet were one step above Sherlock’s while his sentence trailed off into wide-eyed silence. 

“...I don’t want to fight with you over the last piece again… ... John?”

These days Sherlock always reverted to John’s name when he was confused, and the exhaustion of the post-case crash (two nights of no sleep and barely enough food to keep him standing) meant that the confusion hung even heavier on his shoulders than the Belstaff. 

John was staring at his throat. Sherlock had just pulled his scarf off - it was hanging from his hand even now while he waited to see what was happening - and John was staring at his throat and breathing deeply. After two of these measured breaths, just as Sherlock was going to say his name again, John raised his gaze slowly past his chin, lingered on his lips, over his cheeks and then into his eyes… and Sherlock literally felt his heart stutter in his chest, as if it threw itself at the inside of his sternum to get his attention. 

“Oh,” he said, involuntarily, as the deduction _incredibly aroused_ leaped off of John from his dark eyes, his parted lips, his visible pulse, the flush of his skin…

Before he could even process what was happening, John _lunged_ at him, hands on the wall on either side of his head, lips pressed unrelentingly to his. Their chests knocked together and Sherlock raised his arms instinctively to stop John from toppling them both back down the stairs, while his brain started a) trying to work out what brought this on and b), screaming. He wasn’t even sure if it were a positive or a negative scream at that point, just a general screech of mental noise. His arms ended up circling around John’s waist, while his lips decided that waiting for him to catch up was pointless and starting acting of their own accord. John’s lips were rough where they were pressed against his, but when Sherlock moved his own against them it was to be reminded that rough lips caused the most delicious sensation of friction. His brain quieted somewhat as he focused on that one point of contact, because if he tried to catalogue everything that was going on he was not going to be able to function. 

_John is_ kissing _me I’m kissing_ John _I dropped my scarf his eyes are closed should my eyes be closed he is still kissing me I’m kissing_ John _I’m_ kissing _John I’M KISSING JOHN..._

John made an encouraging noise, then his tongue was licking at the seam of Sherlock’s lips - something for which Sherlock was completely unprepared - and Sherlock cursed his own reflexes as he pulled away so fast he hit his head with an audible thunk on the wall behind him. John pulled back immediately, confused, and they both stared at each other wide-eyed for a heartbeat. Then _ohthankgod_ , John’s mouth curled a little into the beginnings of a smile, and his eyes cleared a little in order to light up with mirth, and then he was chuckling and Sherlock was laughing in sheer shock and relief and OK, now he could breathe properly again. 

Perhaps breathing wasn’t quite as boring as he had thought. 

“Are you alright?” John asked quietly, still chuckling, lifting one hand off the wall and sliding it between it and Sherlock’s head, searching for bumps. The slide of that hand through Sherlock’s hair made his breath hitch, and the slight flex of fingers reminded him, _yes that is indeed John Watson’s actual hand holding your actual head…_

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

John chuckled again.

“I think I’ve broken you,” he said, taking a half-step back and releasing Sherlock’s head, pulling at the arms that were still wrapped around his waist in order to get free. The white noise of panic threatened for a moment as Sherlock pictured what would happen next - John turning away in annoyance, John stomping away up the stairs, John stomping away down the stairs, John shaking his head sadly, John explaining _why not_ \- and Sherlock opened his mouth to say… he had no idea… but then John was holding his hands in his, chuckling some more and stepping upwards, tugging to get him to follow. 

Trying not to trip due to his suddenly leaden feet while processing what was happening, was causing quite the strain on Sherlock’s internal systems. The physical reports coming in from various parts of his body were alarming enough in themselves ( _skin clammy, acidic feeling in stomach, lightheaded, extremities tingling and uncoordinated, rapid pulse, trembling…_ ), but the mental cacophony was just as disturbing:

 _He kissed me but he’s_ not gay _but he’s holding my hands and looking at me like THAT and what is he going to do next what is HAPPENING you need to_ speak _he’s still looking at you and you know what he wants and you need to speak you KNOW how this goes you need to_ speak _YOU NEED TO SPEAK…_

They were safe behind the living room door by now and Sherlock opened his mouth to do just that - but then John lunged at him again and all burgeoning efforts to speak, to explain, were wiped from his mind. Besides, was there really a need for embarrassing and cumbersome explanations? It would be fine, because this was John, this was JOHN, he wasn’t like anyone who had come before - certainly not like those Sherlock had known in the days he would do just about anything in order to fund his drug habits. Those men had been rough and cold and callous, where John was strong but warm and kind. 

It would be fine. 

More than fine, if what John was doing with his tongue were any indication. He had taken the opportunity of Sherlock’s distraction to lick into his mouth, and the sensations against his own tongue made the lightheadedness increase but the nerves fade away into a background hum. He could do this part, he _enjoyed_ this part. And - this was John. 

Sherlock hummed to show his appreciation, stroking his tongue against John’s, and John made a low noise in the back of his throat that made Sherlock smile involuntarily. _He_ did that. John wanted _him_ . The one person in the world that Sherlock could think about being physically intimate with in any capacity, and it turned out that he actually _wanted him back_. 

John pulled back when he felt the smile, and grinned in return. 

“There you are,” he husked while threading one hand through Sherlock’s hair to once again grasp the back of his skull. Sherlock’s eyes fell closed involuntarily - it had been so long since anyone had played with his hair, and his scalp was one of the most sensitive spots on his whole body. John’s other hand went under his coat and jacket and around to splay against his lower back, warm through the thin material of his shirt, as he encouraged another kiss. Sherlock rested his hands against that strong chest, beginning to revel in the moment. The trepidation was melting away, because this was great, this was _wonderful._ He began to let go and follow where John led, no longer worrying about head placement or teeth or if he were doing what John wanted - if the soft sounds of approval John were making were any indication, he was doing just fine. Kissing had not been a large part of his previous encounters, and Sherlock was happy to find that he might actually _like_ it. The part of his brain that was still functional wondered how he might maneuver John into sitting on the couch, so that they could continue kissing like this into the late morning…

He felt John pulling at his shirt at the back until that strong hand was directly on his skin, fingers flexing slightly, and Sherlock’s heart rate sped up again. His breath caught, and then the hand in his hair also flexed, pulling slightly… he arched his neck, trying to relieve the sudden unpleasant tension on his scalp, but then his breath caught again as he saw the look on John’s face. John was eyeing his neck as he had done on the stairs - eyeing it, eyeing him, like he just couldn’t wait to eat him alive. For a moment, feeling a spark of wariness, Sherlock considered pushing where his hands still rested, motionless, on John’s chest in order to create more space - but this was _John_. John wasn’t going to do anything bad to him. And if Sherlock pushed him away now… this might be the only chance he got to be this close to him...

John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck even as his grip on his hair tightened even more, making Sherlock wince - though of course, John couldn’t see his face. John was breathing deeply, nose and mouth against Sherlock’s throat, and he appeared to be exercising a great deal of restraint as a tremor ran through him. Sherlock could feel himself shaking, though he tried to keep still, but John must have been able to feel the pulse thundering through his veins even through the skin of his lips and cheeks where they were pressed against the column of Sherlock’s throat. John groaned, the hand on Sherlock’s back gripping harder, as he rubbed his lips and nose from side to side, ear to collarbone, then his tongue sneaked out and he was licking and kissing Sherlock’s neck, back and forth, back and forth. The strong grip on his back brought their bodies flush against each other, and as he felt the press of John’s unmistakeable erection against his thigh, Sherlock’s memory of unpleasant encounters past informed him that a morning of kissing on the couch might not be all that John was after. 

Taking in a great lungful of air, he did push against John’s chest, then. John immediately released his grip on his back and head and took a half step back. He was panting, still eyeing Sherlock’s neck like a drowning man would look at an oxygen tank, but his hands were loosely resting on Sherlock’s waist.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” John said, licking his lips, and Sherlock gaped at him, thrown. 

“You have?” 

John rolled his eyes, appearing to calm a little, and in turn Sherlock felt the tendrils of panic recede again.

This was John. 

“Oh, come on. You must have known - probably deduced it as soon as I moved in. Don’t tell me that thing you do with your scarf is unintentional.” The tone was in the style of their usual teasing banter, though John’s hands moved gently up and down his sides, pressure unmistakeable even over the Belstaff. 

“That thing…?” asked Sherlock, bewildered, completely forgetting what he had wanted to say. John chucked, hands becoming firmer again. 

“Hmmm, yes. That sexy scarf thing…” 

And then they were kissing again, and it was _magic_ , and the flutter of upset receded even more, but Sherlock realized he was so far out of his depth that he had absolutely no idea how to handle the situation. Stopping completely was not an option - he was not about to ruin what might be his only chance with the man he was so in love with, and that had become such an integral part of his life. But acceptance and denial and want and fright were passing over him like waves of hot then cold water, leaving him off-kilter and confused. 

Better to follow along with John, then - a strategy that served him well during social situations. Fighting crime, infiltrating organizations, shamming his way into getting information he wanted - in all this Sherlock took the lead. But this… this was not his area. John was good at this. John would see them through. 

This time John had rested his hands against Sherlock’s chest, so Sherlock chanced wrapping his own around to John’s back. For a while, he lost himself again in the kiss, the gentle to-and-fro of it, and after some time felt he had regained a kind of equilibrium. When John kept himself in one place, it was easier for Sherlock to understand what was happening, and with that understanding came comfort and the desire for more. Being someone who was constantly on the watch for patterns and signals, those that allowed him to deduce the world around him, it was the unexpected that caused concern. Physical intimacy, sex, was full of unexpected actions and reactions - so much so that Sherlock was at a loss as to why most people seemed to enjoy it so much. Not that he was sure that this early morning outpouring was going to lead to sex… though it seemed like it might?... Was that something you could ask? 

_And scare John off with how weird you are so he leaves?_

No asking, then.

John’s hands were moving again now, pushing up over his shoulders, so that both Belstaff and jacket were pushed off, down his arms, to puddle around his feet. He shivered at the change of temperature, wondering then if he should be trying to return the favor and take John’s jacket off? But John was crowding closer and now both his hands were smoothing up Sherlock’s back, under his shirt, and thinking was becoming more and more difficult as his heartbeat started to pound again in his ears and his hands and feet prickled with pins and needles…

“Bed?” John asked, breathing the word into his mouth in between kisses. 

_Bed._

Bed meant… bed meant doing the things that two people did when they went to bed after a lot of kissing. John probably had expectations of what those things entailed. Skills and reactions and moves and groans and _orgasms…_

That was… not good. 

Sherlock broke off the kiss and stepped back, gasping, almost falling as his feet tangled in the clothes flopped around his shoes, his usual grace deserting him. John grabbed his elbows to steady him, face morphing from lustful and devilish to concerned in the blink of an eye. Sherlock felt himself flush, the pale faint feeling leaving him in the wake of a molten rush of shame. 

“Hey,” John asked quietly, grip on Sherlock’s elbows lessening once he was sure the detective wasn’t going to topple over. “Are you alright? We don’t have to do anything, you know.” 

_Don’t have to do anything? What does ‘anything’ mean? Does he mean now? Today?_

_Ever?_

Sherlock gasped again, something heavy in his throat. 

_What happened to following John, hmm? Stop being such an idiot. This is what people do. You are fine._

_FOLLOW JOHN._

“No! … no, I’m just…” he tried, looking from John’s face to the floor and back again. “I’m… I’m fine.”

John smiled warmly then, though there was still a hint of worry in his eyes. 

“If you’re sure?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, nodding, trying to make it sound as emphatic as possible. He did want this. 

_He DID._

He just hoped it went better than it had in the past. It had been a long time - maybe it would all be different now? Maybe his reactions would be different. Maybe John would find it enjoyable. And this was obviously what John wanted, and wasn’t that enough? 

Bolstering his nerve and reminding himself that he was not a coward, he stepped back into John’s embrace, but John turned his head so his ear was flush with Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock abruptly found himself in an unforeseen hug, and the weight in his throat got at least a few grams heavier. However, for all the sentiment a hug could bring, the hard length of John’s clothed cock was now back to being pressed against Sherlock's thigh, and the flighty, fluttering feeling that threatened to have him pull away from the embrace again joined the heaviness in his limbs. The two together must have been toxic to some degree, as a trickle of nausea made itself known in his gut as well. 

“I’m so glad we’re finally doing this,” John murmured, arms wrapped around Sherlock’s back, over his shirt this time. Sherlock knew the correct response to this would be something like, ‘Me, too’, but couldn’t bring himself to flat-out lie. ‘This’ was going to entail a lot of things he did like, but as for the other parts… Well. Unfortunately in this world you couldn’t seem to have only some of those things without the rest.

But this was _John_. 

_Follow John._

He settled on an affirmative hum in response, and that seemed to be alright. John turned his head and planted a slow, soft kiss right against Sherlock’s Adam's apple, and the tightness in his throat eased somewhat. Movement against the cotton at his spine again, then those warm, capable palms were back on his skin. He gulped, and John must have felt it, as he looked up. His eyes seemed to be darkening once more, and his familiar smile was morphing back into the seductive one that Sherlock had only just become acquainted with. 

He wasn’t sure if he liked it. 

“So,” John said, voiced dropping. “Bed?” The hands at Sherlock’s back began to stroke up and down, rucking his shirt more, making the buttons at the front strain harder. Sherlock felt that strain ghost right over the skin of his whole body, fine hairs rising... But this was _John_ , and he did want John.

 _He did._

Sherlock swallowed again, and nodded. 

That new, almost predatory smile broadened, and John started to walk backwards, pulling Sherlock towards his bedroom door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover designed by CarmillaCarmine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags.

The door to the bedroom banged against the wall as John threw it open, and Sherlock tried to concentrate on the return of John’s lips on his, rather than what was presumably about to happen. John was still pulling him onwards, towards the bed, and Sherlock took up an internal chant of,  _ it’s John, it’s John, it’s Johnit’sJohnit’sJohn  _ as the anxiety began to rise again. 

Sherlock had never been accused of being normal, and in regards to physical intimacy he knew he was just as much of a freak as in every other walk of life. However, he was usually proud of how different he was. Not in this, though. He must be the only person in the world who didn’t actually want to orgasm - something previous partners had reacted to in a variety of negative ways.

_ It’s probably a physical problem, have you seen a doctor? There must be something wrong with you... I don’t want to catch anything from you... Don’t worry, it’ll be different with me. Just try, I’ll make you love having sex. If you won’t even try, I’m leaving... How can someone as gorgeous as you not like sex?... Were you abused as a child?... You’re not hard, so you obviously aren’t that into me. Don’t you like me?... Everyone enjoys sex - you sound like a machine... Human beings want shelter, food and fucking, so are you human or not?... You need to see a therapist, you’re a mess… Just lay back and let me do this for you - it’ll be amazing, I promise… Stop pushing me away, just go with it... If it hurts when you come, you need to get that checked out... _

But that was it, it didn’t  _ hurt _ , he just didn’t  _ like it _ \- a reason deemed not only laughable but literally impossible by everyone he had confessed it to. And it wasn’t that he wasn’t enjoying a lot of the accompanying activities either - but apparently enjoyment wasn’t enough. Orgasm, preferably mutual, seemed to be the only goal of most partners, as if all the other parts of sex were just a box-ticking exersise. This was aside from those who had paid him for head - they of course only cared about their own pleasure, something that had actually been something of a twisted relief to a younger Sherlock. 

So, even though  _ this was John _ , Sherlock did not have high hopes for this encounter. He had fantasized about curling up with John on the couch, kissing him, waking up next to him, even helping him to get off… but that was where those fantasies ended. John was just as likely to react negatively to Sherlock’s reticence as all the rest - as the total of negative reactions thus far had been holding steady at 100%. 

_ You need to distract him _ , he thought, as John’s legs hit the bed frame and his wandering hands found their way to Sherlock’s flies. Sherlock marshalled his courage. John absolutely had to enjoy whatever was going to happen between them. There was no other choice. 

“You are entirely overdressed,” he said, pitching his voice low and finishing the sentence with a slow sweep of tongue. John moaned into his mouth, and Sherlock pushed his jacket off and down his arms, tangling their hands together for a moment. The kiss was moving faster now, gasps and pants interrupting the slow slide of lips, as John became more aroused and Sherlock more focused. He took John’s hands and placed them back on his hips, away from his zipper, then got to work pulling John’s jumper up and over his head. This revealed a flannel shirt, and John actually snorted with laughter as Sherlock looked with consternation at all the buttons now in his way. Before John could get any ideas (like trying to remove more of Sherlock’s clothes), Sherlock leaned down and started sucking and laving at John’s neck, just below his ear. John’s chuckle turned into a breathy sigh, and Sherlock was able to get most of the shirt buttons undone as John’s hands moved to wander up and down his back. 

“God, that feels amazing,” John gasped, as Sherlock nipped a little at his neck with his teeth, managing to get all the buttons undone and rest his hands on either side of John’s ribcage. Wary of getting too distracted and the moment getting out of control, Sherlock was trying desperately to shut out the smells and tastes lifting off of John, but it was extremely difficult. He tasted like sweat and warm skin and copper, and he smelled like his corner-shop cologne and London streets and musk. It was intoxicating…

Sherlock snapped back to awareness as John’s wandering hands reached his arse, and both gave a firm squeeze, pulling him closer. Their hips were aligned now, and Sherlock fancied he could actually feel John’s erection throbbing through the thick material of his jeans. Hopefully, if he did something about that, it would be enough. 

He responded by pushing John’s shirt off his shoulders and away, then pausing and looking down at the chest that was revealed. John really was a sight to behold, and Sherlock revelled again in the feeling that this man, at least for right now, wanted to be with  _ him _ . He had to make it worth it. He  _ had to _ . 

He growled a little in appreciation, then leaned further down to get a taste of John’s collar bone. His hands trailed all over that chest, luxuriating in the feel of soft downy hair, the dips and rises of ribs, the intriguing ripple effect of the bullet-hole scar… but then John gasped, let go of his firm grip on Sherlock’s buttocks, and started undoing his pearl shirt buttons. 

“Sherlock, I want you so much…” John whispered, hands trembling as they undid one button, two, three…

_ Distract him. _

There was one pretty much guaranteed way to distract a male lover. Sherlock wasn’t averse to it per se, but the majority of times he had done it, he had not been treated gently. Bruises either side of the jaw on more than one occasion, not to mention scalp pain, scratched ears and neck strain… but most of those times he had done it for money. Most of those times had been for  _ survival, _ as much as the pitiful existence he had fallen into back then could be called survival. Most of them hadn’t wanted him to touch them at all, as if it were through his hands that they might catch some nameless disease. Hands braced upon clothed knees was sometimes allowed, but usually he kept his hands behind his back until they were needed. A willing mouth and throat was all he had been to them. Those men hadn’t cared about him at all, he could have been anyone, any other rent boy kneeling under a bridge, bending sideways in a car, sitting on an alley floor, sneaking through the back door of a hotel…

They weren’t John. 

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Sherlock dropped to his knees. John gasped in surprise and arousal, though Sherlock didn’t look up at him. Instead he already had his hands at work undoing John’s leather belt, nimble fingers making quick work of it, and on to the buttons and zipper. John tentatively put one hand on Sherlock’s head, fingers winding into his hair, and Sherlock braced himself.

“That… you…” John babbled, but Sherlock was nothing if not determined. He didn’t need to hear what John was trying to say.  _ You don’t have to. Only if you want to. We can do something else. _

Bullshit. Every sexual encounter he had had that involved another person’s penis involved this act - it was a basic requirement, and Sherlock was sick of hearing lies that were disproven - usually within ten minutes. _ Only if you want to, _ in Sherlock’s experience, was replaced extremely swiftly by a firm, downwards, guiding pressure on his head or neck.  _ Only if you want to… _ but you better want to.

Sherlock silenced John by nosing and then mouthing at his hard length through the cotton of his boxers, which were already damp with precome. John’s current limited vocabulary melted away to be replaced by deep groans, and as Sherlock pulled at his trousers to cause them to fall down around his ankles, John sat backwards, down onto the bed, as if his legs could no longer support him. Both hands started threading through Sherlock’s hair, not pulling or pushing, the faintest pressure on his scalp, and Sherlock just about purred where he was kneeling in between John’s legs. If only this part would last longer…

John shifted his hips, and Sherlock remembered his goal - distract  _ John _ , not get distracted  _ yourself!  _ Plus, he really did want to see John get off - wanted to see him come apart, to writhe in place due to Sherlock’s ministrations, to gasp his name as he lost control. It was a heady feeling, to be able to give that to someone, and Sherlock was sure it would be even better with someone he cared about so much. 

He put his hands palm-down on the bedroom floor, and mouthed his way up the hard hot rise of John’s cock, sucking at the material, making it damp and clingy as he moved up towards the head. It was almost peeking out of the waistband of John’s boxers, and the trepidation Sherlock was working so hard to keep down pulsed again at this visceral proof of John’s desire. If John wanted to have penetrative sex, if that was his ultimate goal -  _ and let’s face it, it usually is, _ Sherlock thought cynically, then the prospect was only just shy of terrifying. 

_ Don’t think about it, _ he told himself.  _ That’s a long way off… hopefully. Distraction! _

He took both cotton and tip into his mouth, but before he could even begin to think about what to do next, both hands in his hair  _ gripped  _ with a suddenness that had him seeing stars. 

That had  _ hurt. _

Releasing John from his mouth, he rested his face in the crease between his thigh and groin as much to hide his expression as for anything else, panting a couple of times through the shock of the strong stimulus, even as his thigh muscles twitched with the need to bolt from the room. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, Sherlock,” John was babbling reverently, and the hands gentled and moved to the sides of his head, fingers curling around each ear. Not wanting to be yanked into place, Sherlock quickly gathered his waning courage and applied his mouth once again to the tip of John’s cock, tasting the salt of the precome even through the material. As he sucked, feeling the ridge of the head with his lips and tongue, John caressed both of his ears, fingers moving restlessly. 

Sherlock sat up and raised his hands to the waistband of John’s boxers, and for the first time looked up at John’s face to check that this was alright. 

John looked wrecked. There were red marks on his neck, his eyes were wide with wonder and dark with desire, and his kiss-swollen red lips were open as he struggled to control his breathing. He still looked like John… but different. John in a different way… It was both exciting and disturbing. 

_ Distraction.  _

Sherlock trailed his fingertips along the elasticated band of the boxers, staring up at John meaningfully. John appeared to struggle with himself for a moment, but then he gave a short nod, almost as if against his own will. Sherlock didn’t waste any time: he hooked his fingers under the waistband and dragged the boxers down, allowing John’s cock to spring free. Sherlock followed the path of the boxers with his eyes, breathing shallowly, spending some seconds in working shoes, trousers and boxers off and over John’s feet, but finally there was nothing else to do but look at what had been revealed. 

A swoop of dismay flashed through his stomach as he took in the sight: John was definitely on the large side, and the shaft was wider than most as well, from root to tip. There was no way that wasn’t going to hurt when they eventually had sex - in fact Sherlock had sudden visions of some kind of serious injury, bright red blood trickling down pale thighs... 

Why did the man he was in love with have to be so well-endowed? Aesthetically, it was very pleasing - dusky pink, straight, and even as he watched it twitched seemingly of its own volition which Sherlock chose to interpret as flattering… but still… 

It was going to hurt. 

He looked back up at John and thankfully felt calmer just at the look on his face. The smooth, seductive, confident expression was at war with what looked like a bit of anxiety, and Sherlock realized that in this, John was no different than any other man. John was agonising over what Sherlock thought of his cock, and the mundanity of that realization had Sherlock centered and on-track again. 

This was  _ John _ , and he  _ loved  _ John. 

He looked back at it and hummed appreciatively, knowing this would please his partner, leaning forward again and putting his hands back on the floor. He got to within a millimeter of the flushed skin, then just held in place, breathing. The smell of musk and salt and  _ John  _ were much much stronger here, and Sherlock flicked his eyes back up to John’s face to check his reactions. 

John looked like he was about to pass out from holding his breath. His whole chest was flushed, dark red over his heart fading into light pink over his ribs. He was gripping the bed sheets so hard his knuckles were white, and his legs were trembling.

_ This. _ This was something Sherlock _did_ enjoy. Not the rough transaction of the back-alley, not the mandatory participation in other acts - but this slow anticipation of being the only thing on your partner’s mind, the only name on their lips, of making them feel so amazing that they would remember this encounter, and you, forever. 

And, if this activity rendered John into such a state of bliss that he forgot about whatever else he might have wanted to do afterwards, so much the better. 

Sherlock looked back, considered for a moment, then flicked his tongue out quickly to catch the bead of precome resting at the tip. John inhaled raggedly above him, and Sherlock reached his tongue out again, slower this time, licking from the underside of the glans slowly around to the top. He then opened his mouth wide and flattened his tongue, letting the head lay on it for a moment, breathing deeply in and out and knowing that John could feel every whisper of air on the taught, shining skin. John made some kind of strangled sound and shifted in place ever so slightly, obviously trying to control himself. 

After a few seconds more of this, Sherlock decided John was worked up into a suitable state that he could move on, so he took the tip of his cock ever-so-slowly into his mouth. He kept his lips taught so John would feel exactly when the glans completely gained entrance, and sure enough at that moment John gasped out his name,

“Sherlock!”

… the tone sounding like it had come from somewhere deep in his gut. Sherlock hummed, curling his tongue to stimulate the vein he could feel on the underside of the shaft… but then he felt a hand in his hair.

John’s control was over, then. Time to speed things along. 

Curling his lips to cover his teeth, Sherlock undulated his tongue, still humming. He breathed in through his nose and took as much of John in as possible, the man himself beginning to gasp obscenities above him. The hand on his head did not push or grip, but then again Sherlock hadn’t given him a reason to. John’s hips began to shift, so knowing it was time to finally employ his hands, Sherlock shifted his weight and shuffled forward so that John’s thighs were forced up slightly, supported by his shoulders. The hand on his head did tighten its grip then, as John kept up the string of swear words. 

“Oh fuck, oh Christ, Jesus fucking  _ Christ  _ Sherlock…” 

Sherlock hummed again and swallowed, the slick walls of his throat fluttering around the head of John’s cock. A few more swallowing motions, and the grip on his hair was strong enough to be causing pain again. He pulled back slightly, increasing the suction, and brought his fingers in to play, determined to make John forget that he even  _ had hands _ to grip Sherlock’s hair with _ , _ let alone what he should actually be  _ doing  _ with them.

Pulling completely off meant that John let go of his hair, and Sherlock used the opportunity to give John a visual - he looked up at him, then raised his left hand and gave it a broad lick from the tip of his little finger to the tip of his thumb. 

John just about fainted at the sight. 

One more lick, this one sloppier and more for lubrication than for the show, and Sherlock wrapped his left hand around the base of John’s shaft while taking him back into his mouth. He went much faster this time, without any preamble. When his lips met the thumb of his closed fist he pulled back, establishing a rhythm, and after a minute of allowing John to get used to it he brought up his right hand and cupped John’s balls in the palm. John swore again, the deep breathing pattern he had established faltering, and after only a few moments of gently rolling his balls while continuing his other ministrations, Sherlock felt John’s body start to tense up. 

“Sherlock.  _ Sherlock _ , Sherlock, Sherlock _ SherlockSherlock… _ ”

_ Yes! _

Feeling the beginnings of pleased satisfaction already, Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose and hummed once again, continuing the rhythm of his mouth and lips while squeezing the balls a little tighter. He had perfected his technique and knew he was very good at giving head, but it had been a long time and he was already exhausted from the case. He was looking forward to John’s post-orgasm haze. Perhaps he was a cuddler? Perhaps they might even take a mid-morning nap, entwined together? Sherlock got a burst of energy at the thought, humming louder to increase the vibrations, rolling the balls in his hand a little more, trailing his fingertips over John’s perineum. John’s breathing pattern changed again, forming deep, gasping breaths, as his balls tightened infinitesimally in Sherlock’s hand.

“Sherlock…  _ Sherlock _ … I’m going to… I…”

Sherlock hummed again, then looked up through his lashes, locking eyes with John even as he pressed firmly into his perineum with his fingertips. John’s mouth dropped open in shock, he appeared to stop breathing completely, and then his whole abdomen began to twitch as his come began to spurt into Sherlock’s throat. John fell back to lay on the bed, thighs flexing around Sherlock’s shoulders, hands spasming at his sides on the bed, burst after burst of hot fluid spilling out of him. Sherlock kept humming, kept swallowing, taking the length of John once again as far down his throat as he could manage. Only when John stilled completely did Sherlock slide off, and he sat back on his heels, satisfied. 

John was utterly still and quiet on the bed, socked feet still resting on the floor. Sherlock smiled, feeling a warm glow of fulfillment. He had done it - John wasn’t going to forget that blow job in a hurry. Sherlock was forever going to be associated in John’s mind with pleasure, with intimacy, with the sort of closeness that was out of reach of many people. He had made himself vulnerable to Sherlock, and Sherlock had taken care of him. 

Sherlock could have sat there on the floor, gazing at John’s lax form, for the rest of the day. 

“Sher…?”

Sherlock startled a little guiltily, tearing his eyes away. John might not like being seen in such a state… but then John was propping himself up on his elbows, looking around in confusion. When he spotted Sherlock still sitting on the floor, he broke into a confused smile. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “C’me up here, will you?” He extended his hand. 

Sherlock immediately felt the tension and anxiety begin to rise again. Perhaps all John wanted was a post-coital cuddle (something which appealed to Sherlock immensely, something he longed for with an intensity in his chest that was almost frightening…) but perhaps he wanted to… continue. If Sherlock took John’s hand now, wasn’t that agreement? Didn’t that mean he was all-in for whatever happened next? And if he didn’t take his hand, didn’t climb up into the bed, didn’t do whatever else it was that John wanted to do, then John was unlikely to take that well... 

No one else had.

_ Follow John. _

He stood up on wobbly legs, reaching for John’s hand, and allowed himself to be tugged forward to fall next to him on the bed. He lay on his side facing him, and John turned over to do the same, stroking up and down his arm.

“You’re still dressed,” John said quietly, expression languid. Sherlock just looked at him, and when he received no response John moved his hand up to cup Sherlock’s jaw, pulling him close for a slow, exploratory kiss. After a while Sherlock felt the tension in his muscles begin to lessen. Turned out, he really enjoyed kissing - something he would never have known if not for John. The slow stroking motions that John was making again up and down his arm were very pleasant as well, repetitious and soft...

“Let’s get you out of those clothes, hmmm?” John murmured against his lips. 

Something happened then that hadn’t happened to Sherlock in a long time, but as soon as he felt it he also felt its familiarity. It was something like… a reality shift. Like... none of this was really happening… or if it were, it was happening to someone else. That wasn’t his stomach being caressed as his trouser button was undone. It wasn’t his waist that John’s arm slipped around, in order to better grasp his trousers and pull them down, off and away. It wasn’t his thigh that John was stroking, up and down, up and down…

“You aren’t…?” John asked, eyes narrowed in confusion as he looked from Sherlock’s crotch, silk boxers laying flat, then back to his face. Again, Sherlock just looked at him, waiting for what he would do next. John frowned a little, then reached down and gently cupped Sherlock’s cock over his boxers. His hand was warm, the touch foreign, but any unwelcome thoughts were lost in the mist that seemed to be drifting through Sherlock’s head. John kissed the side of Sherlock’s neck as he began to knead his hand against the silk, and Sherlock felt his cock begin to fill a little. 

It was alright though, because it wasn’t him.

John stopped then, leaning up to kiss him on the mouth again, but it still seemed completely different than before. The sensations were less, as if Sherlock’s lips had gone slightly numb. The taste of John in his mouth was less pronounced, the colour of his eyes a more faded blue. It was as if someone had applied a photographic filter to the world, but instead of only sight it dulled each and every sense. Even his heart rate had slowed, the frantic, stressed and stuttering beat switching over to a measured, stronger rhythm. He moved his lips against John’s, but it didn’t seem to matter all that much. John was beginning to move with more purpose, the languor of orgasm apparently over with. After a few moments of kissing, John moved to undo the rest of his shirt buttons, but even that sent no real spike of alarm through Sherlock as it did an hour ago. It was what John wanted to do, and Sherlock was going to let him do it. 

It was like his transport had taken over. Perhaps he had been too close to a nervous collapse, perhaps the sense and muscle memory from traumas long past had risen up to fry nerves and dull synapses and mute sound… perhaps his body was protecting him. 

Whatever was happening, Sherlock was grateful. 

The buttons were all undone now, and John slipped the shirt over Sherlock’s shoulders, but left it on his arms. He leaned down, licking and kissing Sherlock’s collarbone, pushed gently on one shoulder to get him to lay on his back. He went with it, arms lax by his sides, and stared at the ceiling while John kissed his entire collarbone from left to right. 

If he knew that things would end with only these kisses and caresses, he supposed he would be enjoying it more. At the core, Sherlock was a sensual creature - he liked fine fabrics, soft furs, expensive tobacco. His hair and skin care regime was luxurious, the scents he wove around himself were as much his armour as the Belstaff he was so known for. If all John wanted to do was stroke and kiss him all over, Sherlock would have melted into a happy puddle… but he knew that wasn’t the case.

His body knew it too, so it had pushed him into some sort of… trance. He remembered now, he had been here before. It was as if he had walked into a long forgotten sitting room - worn and comfortable, but unused for years. The first few times he had had sex as a youth, had been coerced into doing things he knew were going to be unpleasant, he had been awake and aware and either terrified or miserable the whole time. Then he had learned how to sort of… drift. Drift to a place where whatever the other wanted to do, it was fine. It was all fine. 

It was … easier. Better. Better for him, better for everyone.

John stroked Sherlock’s firming cock a few more times, the slide of the silk seeming very far removed from where Sherlock was, then his hands drifted back to Sherlock’s cloth covered arms and he leaned over him, blocking out the view of the ceiling. Sherlock looked up at him with only mild curiosity. John’s pupils were dilated again, obviously having enjoyed finally peeling the layers of clothes away, and pleased about coaxing a physical response from between Sherlock’s thighs.

“You are so beautiful,” John whispered reverently, leaning down to kiss him again. 

Beautiful. He had heard that word before, many, many times. Usually while he was kneeling in the dirt, or his hair was being pulled out by the roots.  _ You are so beautiful _ , they would say, caging him in with their demanding bodies and their hands and their lies…

For a moment, his heart skipped as the disquiet and distress roared from somewhere very close by, threatening to pour back into his veins, fling him from the bed, fling him far away from John… but then the floating, foggy feeling was back, even stronger than before, somehow making him feel at once both weightless and like he were sinking down into the mattress, down into the earth.

“I’m going to make you feel amazing,” John said, and then he snaked an arm around Sherlock’s waist and bodily dragged him a bit further down the bed. Sherlock eyed his expression, vaguely wondering what he was going to do next, but it didn’t really matter, did it?

_ Follow John.  _

“Arms up,” John said, quiet but with authority. Sherlock immediately began to move both arms, but the shirt sleeves restricted his movements. He had to sit up a little in order to accomplish the instruction, John’s heated gaze on him the entire time. When his arms met above his head, he felt the headboard there, and he looked to John questioningly. 

“Gorgeous,” John said, then sat up and straddled Sherlock’s chest in one smooth move, his cock resting in the center of Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock wondered then if John intended to fuck his face. If he did, that was fine. It wasn’t like Sherlock was there anyway. 

Instead though, John leaned over him and rearranged the shirt that was now crumpled up around each wrist, cuffs still in place. Sherlock couldn’t see what he was doing, but after a minute there was a tug and the pull at his shoulders became more pronounced. Seemingly finished, John slid further down his body, one leg still on either side, then leaned down on his forearms, caging Sherlock’s head. He kissed him deeply, tongue sliding far back into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock caressed him back with his own tongue, knowing that was what he wanted. John pulled back, smiling. 

“Feel OK? Can you move?” 

Sherlock blinked slowly at him for a moment, then realized that John was talking about his wrists. He glanced upwards, unable to see anything, and tugged experimentally. There was some give to the material, but he couldn’t move them far. John must have redone the buttons somehow and twisted the fabric, forming a restraint, attaching him to the ornate headboard…

_ NO! _

He breathed in sharply through his nose, eyes frantically seeking out John’s. John was still smiling - in fact, he looked positively smug. 

If he was smiling, if  _ John  _ was smiling, then it was alright, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

_ Follow John. _ FOLLOW JOHN. 

_ THIS IS WHAT PEOPLE DO. _

“Alright?” John questioned, looking away and back up towards Sherlock’s bound wrists. 

There was a faint high-pitched and insistent sound starting in Sherlock’s ears, but his heartbeat felt like it dropped in speed yet again. His heart was as a whale’s heart, alone in a cold, vast ocean, beating only once or twice a minute in order to keep the cold, unfeeling blood from forming ice crystals in his veins. 

He made some kind of noise of assent. 

John looked back at him, heat in his gaze. 

“Brilliant,” he said, and then he was gone from Sherlock’s field of vision, kissing along his collarbones again. One of his hands stroked up and down Sherlock’s ribcage, the other along the line of his cock, pressure increasing. Acidic heat was beginning to pool in Sherlock's groin, he felt it in the joints of his hips, he felt it as a strain in his abdominal muscles. The measured, hypnotic breathing he had been relying on gave way to deeper, faster breaths. Was he getting enough air? 

Did it matter?

John was kissing downwards, moving those passionate lips down Sherlock’s sternum, hands slipping under the waistband of his boxers, pulling them swiftly off, down his legs, away. There was a pause where the heat of John’s body was absent, hands pulling at the socks on his feet, a chuckle from somewhere as perhaps John finally realized he was still wearing his own and removing those as well. Sherlock thought about flexing his wrists, but decided there was no point. He wasn’t going to move. He couldn’t. John could have secured him with a length of spider-web, and the result would have been just the same.

John wanted him... but he wanted him in restraints. Sadness and a kind of despair were as flickering shadows in the corner of the room - dark, transient, hollow. Then they were gone as well. 

It didn’t matter. 

John was kissing the mound of his stomach, even as his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s length, moving up and down, up and down, slick with the traitorous precome he had found there. He twisted his hand over the tip, sending waves of prickling electricity shooting back into Sherlock’s core, and Sherlock closed his eyes, considering absently the harsh, panting breaths dragging up and down his throat. The hot, heavy, bitter feeling in his pelvis, the base of his back, in his gut and in his balls was slowly intensifying, and Sherlock accepted with anesthetized inevitability what was going to happen next. 

He felt John’s chin prod into the soft flesh of his belly, and he looked down at him, head tilting on auto-pilot. John was looking up at him, face fierce, hand pumping in the background, but for a second Sherlock wasn’t even sure who he was. 

Was that John? 

He had just been with John, hadn’t he?

One more twist to the head of his sensitized penis, a flick of a nail over the slit and then it was happening - his muscles cramped, from his toes to the palms of his hands. His back arched sharply off the bed with a snap, his neck twisted, and he was unable to stop a cry from wrenching itself free of his mouth. His mind was shredded, tumbling to inspect one shrieking system to another, and his thoughts, wants and fears all strained and smashed like sheets of weakened glass, pieces scattering. The sharp, hot pulsing through his guts, through his shaft and out into the air went on, his knees bent and his feet pushed up from the bed as he tried to control it, to endure it. The acid, the heat and panic were being expelled from his body, spurt by spurt, landing in viscous streams all over his chest, all over John’s hand and arm. It seemed to go on and on, until there was nothing in his head at all except the shrieks of violent ghosts, carried on the non-existent wind. 

Even as it ebbed, he felt the poison eating into his skin where it had landed, creeping, itching, and vile. 

The faint ringing he had been hearing earlier was much louder now, sore muscles were twitching, toes curling, an ache in his abdomen where his organs used to be. The only triumph he could claim in that instant was that his hands were still up by the headboard. 

They were still where John had wanted them to be. 

“My god,” John said, some kind of awe in his voice. He was laying back at Sherlock’s side now, eyeing the mess of fluids and marks from his kisses with stark appreciation. “That… is it always like that?” 

Sherlock took a huge, slow breath. The thundering of his heart was slowing, the terror of the moment was passing. He looked at John, at his shining eyes and the pleased quirk to his mouth, the possessiveness lifting off his very skin like smoke. He let his bent knees fall towards him, twisted in the grip of the shirt, faced John, hoped beyond hope to feel a gentle hand reach out…

A phone rang. 

John blinked, looking disorientated, then sat up with a grimace and looked around the room. 

Sherlock watched him. 

The phone was in John’s discarded jeans, and Sherlock listened vaguely to as much of the conversation as he could through the ongoing high pitched noise in his ears. His breathing was evening out again, back to the slow, even tempo that had shielded him before. He stared at the duvet cover where John had been, let his eyes unfocus and take in the varying shades of colour, of light and shadow in the folds of the fabric, thinking of nothing at all…

“Ugh, sorry,” John said, loudly, the sound discordant in Sherlock’s mind. He appeared again, crouching at the side of the bed. “It’s the clinic. There’s an emergency, and they really need me down there. Probably going to pass out at my desk after the morning we’ve had, but still…” He grinned wolfishly. There was an exorbitantly happy glow about him. He leaned in, still all smiles, kissing Sherlock’s lips with a kind of giddy abandon. 

“I’ve got to hop in the shower and get down there as soon as possible,” he said apologetically once he pulled back. He glanced up towards the headboard. “You can get out of that, right?” 

Sherlock blinked at him, then nodded slowly, cheek dragging against the duvet fabric. 

“Hah, good,” said John, chuckling and moving away. “Can get out of a pair of police cuffs in thirty seconds, but defeated by a dress shirt - I can see the headlines now!” Sherlock heard him gathering his clothes from the floor, and he lifted his head, glancing back at the headboard, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He started sitting up, turning his upper body so he could more easily see the restraint.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” John called, and Sherlock looked at him over one shoulder. 

There was John, bundle of clothes in hand, naked, one hand on the frosted bathroom door. 

There was John, but there was not-John. There was someone that Sherlock had just met, here, in this room, on this bed. 

Sherlock nodded. 

John smiled, and slipped through the door. The sound of water started soon after. 

Sherlock pulled the rest of his body up the bed. His feet were tingling, and he flexed his toes a few times to see if they were still working. Once in a sitting position, torso twisted towards the headboard, he realized it was becoming more difficult to breathe. His throat was closing up, like someone had reached down his throat and started to squeeze. The slow slide of sticky fluid down his chest as he had moved sent a wave of revulsion deep into his bones. There was a pressure building under and behind his eyes, and that incessant whining noise in his ears droned on and on, and on…

_ You can get out of that, right? _

Sherlock stared at the thin cloth wrapped around and around his wrists. He lifted the knot from where it was tangled in the ironwork of the headboard, freeing it from the bed easily. Turning back around to sit forward, feet on the floor, he rested his bound wrists on his thighs and just stared and stared and stared. He could see how to get them free - a nip or two of teeth might be required, but he could manage it. 

It was just… he didn’t want to. It felt…  _ wrong. _

He didn’t want to do something wrong.

Would John come back to kiss him goodbye?

He swallowed against the hateful pressure building in his head, focused instead on his breathing, on the sheen of pearlessence on the shirt buttons, on the threads coming loose at the seams. The sound of the shower began to drown out the high-pitched noise, and he was able to swallow to loosen the salty knot squeezing around his throat, eyes burning.

The mess on his chest would dry, and eventually be cleaned away. It was alright. It must be, because John wouldn’t have left him this way if it wasn’t. John was not a bad person. John was good. 

_ Follow John. _

The water turned off, and Sherlock heard John dashing quickly up the stairs to his room. He let himself tilt sideways, raising his legs until he was laying on his side again on the bed, elbows bent, bound hands in front of his face. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the ruined fabric, breathing, in, out. 

In. 

Out.

He heard John’s footsteps thunder back down the stairs to the living room, heard a door open and close. More steps down more stairs, fading away. Another door. 

Opened. 

Closed.

Silence.

Sherlock lay there, alone on his bed, for a long, long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this was... intense. As always, I'm interested to hear from you in the comments.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags.

To say John Watson was finding it difficult to concentrate on his job was a vast, vast understatement. 

Not only was he exhausted from a combined total of seven hours sleep in two days - scarfing down empty calories in the form of a bowl of the kind of sugary cereal he kept in the office that he would caution his patients never to eat - but he was still reeling, both physically and mentally, from a round of rather astonishing sex with his best friend, just that very same morning. 

His  _ male  _ best friend. 

John had had sex with a man!  _ Finally! _

He felt… well. There were a lot of thoughts and feelings swirling around his foggy brain at the moment, but  _ smug  _ was definitely in there somewhere. He had been fighting himself and memories of his homophobic father for years now, and had gotten to the point that he just couldn’t see it happening: he just couldn’t see himself bridging the gap, and actually having a relationship with a man. He still felt attracted to men occasionally, but they had seemed out of reach - remote, foreign, at least in regards to flirting. He had never worked up the courage to go and chat one up, no matter how interesting the face, how much he liked the glint in their eyes, or their laugh, or their smell. He had started to feel defeated by it, somehow. 

And then along came Sherlock. 

_ Sherlock. _ God. What an insane, unique, bewildering,  _ gorgeous  _ specimen of a human being he was. John had been attracted immediately, but it was the deductive outpouring in that first shared taxi ride that had really done it. He had listened, gobsmacked, confused and aroused, as that walking Dolce and Gabbana advert come-to-life had delivered the most devastatingly accurate set of deductions about him and his life, all in a private-school, velvet-covered concrete voice, and he had thought…

_...I am in So. Much. Trouble. _

And he had been right. Not only did the two of them become fast friends, partners in anti-crime, bending and breaking laws, and bones, and oftentimes common sense, but they also lived a shared life. They were always together, unless John was at work or Sherlock at Bart’s, but mealtimes, movies, going for walks, celebrating holidays… They were Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. They were a unit. 

It had been excruciating. 

_ Here  _ was a man, that was everything John wanted. Intelligent, witty, sarcastic and  _ fun. _ Handsome and driven and subtle like smoke… at least, when he wanted to be. He could also be as blunt as a sledgehammer, and John loved that about him as well. And all of this was  _ right there, _ it was right within John’s reach, but aside from an abortive attempt in the first few days of meeting him, John had never worked up the courage to ask for more than friendship. 

Until this morning. 

There had been no special reason, no real catalyst. Just one moment he was following Sherlock up the stairs, trying not to stare at that  _ illegal  _ arse, then the flicker of Sherlock’s scarf up ahead had apparently been too much for him. Something had almost literally  _ snarled  _ from inside his chest,  _ I WANT, _ and he had gone for it. He had stood for a few seconds in front of Sherlock and unsure how he had got there, trying to get himself under control, but it had been impossible. That neck, that creamy skin, the plump, defined lips, the sharp angles of his face, those luminous eyes, wide with realisation and shock - and then the man had made that sound, that little  _ ‘Oh’ _ that he made when he realised the truth of an especially large deduction, that sound that made John think of twisted sheets and sweaty skin and  _ need…  _ So he had kissed Sherlock right there and then, nerves be damned. 

And  _ oh, _ how it had worked out! He almost couldn’t believe it. He especially felt stunned that it had gone so  _ quickly. _ Stunned and if he were honest, taken-aback. The morning had been an emotional roller-coaster, with no real time in between swoops and falls to process one revelation before the next one arrived. While it was not uncommon for John to sleep with people he had only kissed for the first time that same day (or on some raunchy occasions, had not kissed at all…), those were all fleeting experiences, both parties knowing that it was a one-time event. He had never done that with someone he had strong feelings for before… but then, none of them had been men. Wasn’t there some stereotype that gay men got it on faster than their straight counterparts? He didn’t like believing in stereotypes, but if the morning was anything to go by, he might need to adjust his thinking a bit… 

Faster pace. Alright. Rougher too?... He didn’t know. 

He and Sherlock had been kissing in the living room, and John had not been feeling his usual confident self. Part of it was the height difference - he had never kissed someone taller than him, and though he kept telling himself he was being an idiot, it was stopping him from really losing himself to the experience. He had suggested they move to a bed so he could let that go and enjoy himself, and he had also hoped they could perhaps get rid of their shirts so he could start getting used to a different body type than he was accustomed to. Plus, being rather obsessed with Sherlock’s almost edible-looking skin, he had been looking forward to feeling and kissing a lot more of it once they were feeling comfortable. Initially surprised, Sherlock had seemed on board with that as well and followed him into the bedroom for a snogging session.

But then to his utter shock, Sherlock,  _ his Sherlock _ who treated his body with disdain, and mocked people for obsessing over love affairs and sexual encounters, had dropped to his knees in front of him with a purposefulness that John hadn’t known how to stop. His brain had simultaneously screeched to a halt, while spinning multiple thoughts at the same time. 

_ This is TOO FAST but look at him KNEELING there this is like a wet dream QUICK tell him we don’t need to do this yet come on open your mouth John and SAY something oh CHRIST he’s already licking me through my boxers I am going to come just watching him… _

Cautious happiness, extreme nerves, and heart-stopping arousal had all been at war and he had just opened his mouth to tell Sherlock to  _ STOP…  _ but then Sherlock had looked up at him through those long lashes, eyes intense, clever fingers stroking his waist… and John had nodded, God help him. He had  _ wanted.  _

A far less confident voice had also been whispering in the back of his mind, in fact had continued to whisper, and was whispering even now -  _ if Sherlock gets bored, it’s all over. If you reject him now, he’ll leave. It’s a wonder he’s here at all, let him do what he wants. It’s Sherlock! _

What had followed had been without a doubt, the most amazing blow-job that John had ever recieved. So good in fact, that he had almost immediately completely forgotten his trepidation about doing any of this with a man. The way Sherlock moved his tongue, how he angled his throat and swallowed and hummed… John had almost completely forgotten his  _ own name. _

But then, to his shame, as soon as he had his wits about him again his brain had gone off on a dark tangent - because this was  _ absolutely not _ Sherlock’s first time doing this. John had never really considered it in detail having so little to go on, but if anyone had asked him what he thought Sherlock’s previous sexual experience was, he probably would have said, ‘minimal’. 

You did not get that good at giving head without practice. ‘Minimal’ practice would not cut it either. Sherlock Holmes had a lot of experience with sex. Some might say,  _ extensive  _ experience.

John’s mind had immediately begun to conjure up visions of these past lovers. Intelligent, beautiful, suave types, no doubt. From the upper echelons of society most likely as well - wooing the equally upper-class Sherlock Holmes with fine dining and precious gifts. Irene Adler had wandered across the inside of John’s eyelids, laughing and mocking him with her cut-glass voice and perfect posture. Had the men Sherlock had slept with been like her as well? Smooth as glass, perfect bodies, kinky as a cheap garden hose?

Probably. 

But then why wasn’t Sherlock seeing anyone? He could be in a relationship with practically anyone he met, if he so chose, and yet he remained alone.  _ ‘Dull,’ _ John could remember him saying on more than one occasion.  _ ‘Bored.’ _ Had all his past relationships been unable to hold his interest? What chance did dull, boring, vanilla John Watson have against  _ them, _ if even  _ they  _ hadn’t managed to keep him?

He had looked around for Sherlock then, worried, but been thrown by finding the detective still sitting on the floor. Sherlock had looked almost happy for a moment, but then his face had gone back to being blank and still. 

_ ‘Bored.’ _

John had reached for him a little desperately, relieved that Sherlock deigned to come and lay down on the bed, intimidated by how skilled he obviously was with men, where John knew next to nothing. Sherlock had then been responsive enough to kissing, beautifully so, but when John had started removing his clothes, the bored, distracted look had come back.  _ Probably planning his next experiment or something, _ John had thought, feeling five kinds of inadequate. He couldn’t even keep Sherlock’s attention while he took his clothes off! 

And then, the absolute worst realization - Sherlock hadn’t even been  _ hard. _ There John had been, trying everything he could think of to salvage the situation, to stoke the fires in Sherlock enough that he would at least put his hands back on John’s skin, only to find that this extraordinary man he was somehow in bed with, wasn’t even  _ remotely  _ aroused. 

It had taken all of John’s bravery not to get up and leave the room. He had been mortified, and so, so ashamed - had almost combusted with it. But Sherlock had still been there, so he must be interested, at least to some degree… Steeling himself and determined to prove that he could, John had reached out a tentative hand and cupped the penis of another man for the first time. It had felt different to his own, even through the layer of silk, but not so very different that his hindbrain didn’t immediately let him know what to do. He had moved his hand  _ just so, _ and thankfully,  _ thankfully, _ Sherlock had begun to respond. 

Encouraged, John had turned to compliments then, as surely in bed this delectable creature must be used to getting showered with compliments?  _ ‘Beautiful,’ _ had been the first thing he could think of, because it was true - but even this had also caused little reaction, barely a flicker in those ever-changing eyes. Was it not OK to say that to a man? Beginning to feel at a loss, John had floundered around for what to try next - when it hit him. 

Kink. Kink was what was missing. He had seen how Sherlock responded to Irene as he had not responded to anyone else. He knew how much mental stimulation that massive brain required. The man had his own riding crop and handcuffs, for God’s sake! God, he was slow sometimes. 

Manhandling Sherlock down the bed, he had again dug deep for some courage, and ordered that Sherlock raise his hands above his head, feeling a little silly. To his great relief, the effect had been immediate. Sherlock had moved his arms as if controlled just by John’s voice, and once in place had finally made eye-contact again, like he had just been waiting for John to get a clue and take charge. Moving quickly and feeling clumsy, John had improvised a simple restraint using Sherlock’s no-doubt extremely expensive shirt - but time was of the essence. The detective seemed barely interested in proceedings, so John had needed to keep up the momentum. He had secured Sherlock’s wrists to the headboard, just enough to create some stretch, then checked on Sherlock to see if this met with his approval. 

Once he had got his attention, Sherlock had seemed confused for a moment, glancing upwards as if he could see what John had done. When he understood, John saw it hit him like a physical blow - there was a hungry, almost-crazed desperation as he had looked back at John, the shared understanding between them needing no words.  _ You tied me up. Let’s see if you can live up to what that means. _

Yes, he had tied Sherlock up, but at that moment John had realized he had no idea what to do with him next. He had never been into BDSM, but he knew some people needed it to be a part of their sex and sometimes waking lives. He had wanted everything to be good for Sherlock, but he was out of his depth, like he was trying to think in a foreign language. Sherlock’s reactions were throwing him too - he had expected snark and laughter to his earlier command, but instead got immediate and silent obedience. Then he was left sitting there, Sherlock tied up and waiting for whatever amazing sexual entertainment he was used to, with John starting to panic at his own lack of imagination. 

_ Return the favor. Blow him. _

The thought had not been appealing. Not that he didn’t want to try it, maybe even soon, but his self-esteem had already taken a battering by then and he didn’t think he could take being looked at unfavorably in that area - as he no doubt would be, compared to the tricks and skills that Sherlock knew how to employ. 

But what else could he do? He had belatedly realized, far too late, that probably the whole point of restraining someone was because you were going to touch them and didn’t want them to touch you - which was about as far from reality as it were possible to be at that moment. He had wanted those long, nimble fingers to trail all over his body, as they had fleetingly trailed over his chest in the living room. Wanted those long arms and legs to wrap around him, feet to nudge and hands to stroke… but it had been too late by then. 

Instead, he had kissed down Sherlock’s chest while stroking him through his boxers, trying to build up the courage to go for it once he reached his goal: but when he got there, when it was obvious that he had reached the moment when he should pull down that silk and take what lay there into his mouth - he had chickened out. He was too jittery, too nervous, too pent-up with new things that were happening too fast. He had considered saying something, apologizing even, but with flaming cheeks had decided that would just make it worse and so had retreated down to Sherlock’s feet. The sight of the man’s posh socks had distracted his spiralling thoughts for a moment, he had even managed to laugh as he realized in all his panic he hadn’t even taken off his own socks, looked back up at Sherlock, hoping he would laugh too… but nothing. Sherlock wasn’t even looking at him. Was probably disappointed that John wasn’t bobbing over his crotch, hands doing magic at the same time, as he was supposed to be doing. 

_ I’m going to make you feel amazing, _ John had said, and then not delivered. Sherlock was probably wondering what he was even doing there. 

John had wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock with more surety then, knowing that if he didn’t get him off, this was all going to have been a massive failure. And if it was, what was going to happen to Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock then? Broken. Broken and separated, John was sure of it. He couldn’t even begin to picture a way for them to recover if this encounter ended badly. His trepidation at having his hands on another man paled against that realization. 

He had stroked Sherlock slowly, then a little faster, increasing the pressure as he watched and felt his length swell more in his hand. His relief at seeing precome begin to appear was a physical thing - he felt renewed, like he might be able to do this after all. Sherlock’s breaths had deepened and sped up, though he still didn’t make any noise - and John had realized then that since Sherlock had stripped John of his clothes, he hadn’t spoken or made any other sound at all. Not once. 

That couldn’t be good, could it? 

A new goal, then, of trying to get some noise, some verbal sign of enjoyment out of his partner. Instinctively, he had started adding a twist to his strokes, and Sherlock’s body had stiffened noticeably, muscles beginning to strain for release. His breathing had become ragged, John could see his throat working as he struggled, though he couldn’t see his expression. He remembered almost  _ willing  _ Sherlock to look at him towards the end, and it had been like Sherlock had heard - he had lifted his head and looked down at John - but in that moment John could barely recognise him. It was like looking into an abandoned building: windows shining but nothing inside - so all you can see is repeated reflections of yourself...

Transfixed by the bizarre feeling of ‘otherness’, but not wanting to give up, John had thought again of what Sherlock might need and decided to try something - and with a scratch of John’s nail over the leaking head of his cock, Sherlock was coming with a kind of violence that John had never seen before.

It had looked… intense. He couldn’t even think of another word for it, though the word was woefully inadequate. Intense to the point of painful, if the abrupt keen of sound that Sherlock finally surrendered to the air was anything to go by. John had winced upon hearing it, then quickly schooled his features, not wanting to give Sherlock any cause for upset. Plus, now they had made it, he was starting to feel dizzy with relief at having got through his first sexual experience with a man. As unexpected as the strength of Sherlock’s orgasm had been, it was John who had got him there after all, and the tension that he had been carrying since he had come around from his own post-orgasm daze had finally left him.

He had asked Sherlock if it were always like that, and not received any response, aside from some strange, lingering eye-contact as he started to get his breath back. John had been starting to flounder then again, wondering what the next step should be - should he untie Sherlock’s wrists? Or would he want to stay bound like that, until he calmed down, caught his breath? Would he find it condescending if John untied him? He was Sherlock Holmes, he hardly needed the help… It had also seemed impossible at that moment that they were going to get into the post-shag cuddle side of things, which had saddened John more than he thought it would. The odd eye-contact, the glazed watchfulness had continued as Sherlock had turned towards him...

And then, gift from the gods, his phone had rung. 

He might have left the bedroom a little faster than was strictly polite, etiquette-wise, but Sherlock had not seemed like he wanted to talk, or hug, or… well, anything really. He had been off in his head, as if the whole encounter hadn’t happened, … or hadn't been very important. Even so, John had been unable to contain his happiness and relief that overall, things had gone OK, grinning through a quick kiss before dashing off to shower. He thought it had been enough at least to be able to entice Sherlock into a round two, once they were back together again… 

Having managed to work through a few patients while retaining absolutely nothing about them in his brain (thank God for automated systems and computerized prescription ordering), John’s body politely informed him that if he did not get a few hours sleep,  _ right now, _ it was going to take matters into its own hands and drop him right there at his desk. Thankfully the day had slowed down, and with long-suffering but experienced good-humor, Sarah agreed to wake him up as he went to take a nap in an empty examination room. A few more hours work for the evening shift once he woke up, and then he could start to think of how to solve his new and complicated problem:

Now that he finally had Sherlock Holmes, how the hell was John going to keep him?

*************************************************************************************

John opened the door to the flat that evening with some hesitancy, unsure of what to expect. Sherlock was unpredictable at the best of times, and now that they had shaken the foundations of their relationship, who knows what his reaction had been, or was going to be? John had considered texting him part way through his evening shift, but had eventually decided against it. He had already asked Sherlock if he would see him tonight (stupid, he had realized later, as they already lived together - Sherlock must have been exasperated), no need to say anything else. He didn’t want Sherlock to think he was getting too sentimental, as that was bound to drive him away if nothing else did. 

He quickly realised though that he needn’t have been concerned - Sherlock was sitting at his usual place in the kitchen, staring into his microscope, looking for all the world like nothing had changed at all. Foundations shaken? Hah! 

_ Get a hold of yourself, Watson. _

“What are you working on?” he asked, just as he would any other day, though his mouth felt a bit dry with the remnants of nerves. He hung up his coat and toed off his shoes.

All fine. All breezy. Nothing to see here. 

“The structure of the epithelial cells of the common house cat,” Sherlock said, not looking up. John moved further into the kitchen. Sherlock’s hair was damp, laying flatter on his head than usual, water still dripping down some of the tendrils and onto his blue dressing gown. John caught himself watching one of those drops of water as it landed on Sherlock’s neck and disappeared swiftly down under the neckline of his T-shirt. 

He shook himself. “Got a new case on then?” 

“No,” Sherlock said, making a minute adjustment to one of the dials, still apparently transfixed.  _ There goes another drop, _ John’s hindbrain helpfully informed him, pointing out this one as it trailed down the curve of Sherlock’s ear… John didn’t know why Sherlock had showered again this late in the day, but whatever the reason was, he cheered internally. However, as much as he wanted to watch water drip down Sherlock’s hair, dampening his clothes…  _ Yum _ … John had other plans for the evening. 

A date. He was going to take Sherlock out on a date, like he should have done from the start. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t have eaten yet (and might not eat even when they went out, but that wasn’t the point…) so he had called ahead to Angelo’s to make sure ‘their’ table was reserved for their arrival. It would be a late dinner, just as Sherlock liked it, with hardly any other patrons around. They could have a candle on the table, they could reminisce and talk and laugh, brush away any awkwardness… now all John had to do was convince Sherlock to actually go ahead with it. 

“So… you’re not busy, particularly?” he asked, attempting nonchalance.

Sherlock pulled back from the microscope, stared at it a second more, then finally turned to look at him. With the water drops making his hair glisten and the neckline of his shirt cling, the silk of his gown looking like it was painted onto his arms, he appeared even more stunning than John remembered. It always seemed to be like that - just when he thought he had gotten used to Sherlock - his intelligence, his sense of humor, his looks - Sherlock would turn around and surprise him by exceeding his expectations, all with no apparent effort at all. 

“No…” he said, slowly, eyes glancing here and there on John’s face and neck, making him flush. “I’m not busy, _ particularly. _ ”

That drawl, that burnished baritone, the way Sherlock had that he sometimes sort of…  _ purred… _ the way he was doing right now...

John was across the intervening space, hand on Sherlock’s jaw and leaning in for a kiss before he even consciously moved. 

The kiss turned heated almost immediately. Sherlock let out a sigh almost as soon as their lips touched, allowing John’s tongue entry to meet his, and John couldn’t help but slide a hand onto one of those damp shoulders and lean in even more. What should have been a soft hello full of shy glances and questions and chuckles, had quickly turned into the kind of searing kiss that led you places and a lot of answers - all of which seemed to be, yes, _yes,_ _YES!_

_ Date! _

Remembering himself, John reluctantly pulled back from that sinful mouth just far enough to regard Sherlock and get a grip. He was thrown again though, having forgotten not to expect Sherlock to act like his previous lovers - he had expected to see heavy-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, uneven breathing… but Sherlock’s eyes were wide open and clear, if a little unfocused, and if anything he looked more pale and his breathing was more even than when John had entered the kitchen. He was looking at John steadily, as if waiting for him to do something…

Suddenly the phrase,  _ ‘Will you go out with me?’ _ , seemed horribly immature and out of place, but John wasn’t willing to let go of the idea just yet.

“Are you hungry?” he asked instead, then immediately cursed internally. Of course Sherlock would say no to that question - he always did, even if five minutes later he was polishing off his second round of toast. 

“Are  _ you  _ hungry?” Sherlock returned, head tilting slightly to one side, eyes fixed on John’s face like he was trying to deduce the meaning behind every line, every pore, every cell. That… that wasn’t like Sherlock. Not like him at all. Was it a double entendre? Was John supposed to say,  _ ‘Only for you, gorgeous,’ _ then snog him up against the kitchen table?

It wasn’t like it was a terrible idea…

_ No! Date! Get a grip! _

“You want me,” Sherlock said then, knocking the wind out of John and all his plans. He said it so calmly too, like he might say, ‘Pass me the paper.’ Like it was nothing remarkable, just stating a fact. John gaped, feeling the moment start to get away from him. 

“You want me,” Sherlock repeated, swivelling on the stool even more to be facing John completely, body language open. His knees were bent and parted slightly as his bare feet rested on the rung of the stool, well-worn cotton pyjama pants hanging loosely off his thighs. His arms were resting at his sides, the light reflecting off the teal silk that showed every curve and dip of his muscles...

_ “Yes,” _ John breathed, because what else was he going to say to that?

Sherlock gave a little nod as if to himself, then slowly reached out one hand, long fingers curling in a beckoning motion. John took one step forward, feeling as a mouse being charmed by a snake, then gasped as Sherlock hooked his finger through one of John’s belt hooks, pulling him closer with a strong tug. John stumbled slightly then looked down and realized how familiar this already was - him staring down at Sherlock, Sherlock looking back up at him with those swirling, beautiful eyes…

“Wait,” he gasped, as Sherlock brought up his other hand, obviously intent on undoing his belt buckle. Sherlock froze, in fact he twitched a little in place, looking lost and unsure for a moment before the mask of cool indifference returned. “Wait,” John said again, grasping both of Sherlock’s hands. They were very cold in his. 

They regarded each other carefully. John tried to get a read on Sherlock, but he was utterly still - he might as well have been carved out of marble. 

“I want you as well,” Sherlock said then, eyes drifting back down to John’s belt and back to his face. “You’ve been thinking about me all day, thinking about what I did to you this morning, what you want me to do to you now.” John took a deep breath. His skin was starting to tingle all over, his heart was thumping, and already he could feel a throb, like a bass drum, in his pelvis. It sounded on almost every syllable flowing from Sherlock’s mouth, deep and inescapable. 

Sherlock’s hands slipped out of his. 

“Is that what you want, John?” Sherlock said, looking up at him again as he started to undo the belt buckle. “Do you want to be back in my mouth? Tell me. Tell me what you want.” 

“I…” John’s voice and brain were failing him. It was quite obvious by now that there wasn’t going to be an easygoing date that evening. Once again, he had completely misread the situation - because Sherlock obviously didn’t want any of that. He was skipping all the romance, all the flirting, and going straight for the main event. John felt like the weakest human being on Earth when he just decided to go with it - because,  _ hell, _ cock already swelling, feeling dazed with lust, and a gorgeous partner who wanted him - he wasn’t even sure anymore if he wanted to resist.

They could go on a date tomorrow. 

Sherlock had the buckle open and was sliding his belt out from the loops - he threw it away from them onto the floor and opened the button and zipper, all while still staring up at John. He slid his hands down then - down the front of John’s thighs, slowly, ever so slowly, tugging at the material to drag it down as well. Though the eye contact continued, John still couldn’t get a read on him. He certainly seemed intent on getting what he wanted, if nothing else…

The trousers fell, and John could feel his cock straining against the cotton of the briefs he was wearing. Sherlock looked down then, pulling his hands back to rest on his own thighs, appearing to focus all of that intelligence and curiosity on one goal. John swallowed with great difficulty, then kicked the trousers out of the way. One more glance up at him, eyes shining, and Sherlock leaned forward to tongue at John’s belly button, just visible under his shirt and jumper. John sucked in a breath, surprised, fighting off a ticklish feeling as this would not be a good time to burst into giggles - though a large chunk of him felt like it - but then Sherlock was moving lower, nuzzling at his belly, swirling his tongue with little humming sounds that brought the fuzzy memories of that morning roaring back to John in glorious technicolor surround-sound. 

Oh, how he wanted those hands on him though. Sherlock was gripping his own knees and leaning forward on his stool so he could move his lips further down John’s body, but all John really wanted was those hands to stroke up and down his thighs, to move over the backs of his calves, even to reach up towards him…

He gasped in shocked arousal as Sherlock licked delicately at the head of his cock. It was just showing over the waistband of his briefs, and Sherlock was licking it with little flickering motions that sent pulses of pleasure right along the shaft and deep into his groin. John stumbled slightly then, feeling out of control, righting himself by putting both hands back onto the table. Almost immediately, Sherlock put one foot on the floor so he could get back into position, mouth and tongue seeking him again. One of his hands was still on his knee, but the other was now behind his back. 

John looked down at him in confusion, aching for his touch, but then that mop of tempting curly hair moved again and he felt Sherlock begin to nose his briefs down to expose more of his shaft to the air, tongue still flickering, teasing, tempting…

Apparently even this morning’s spectacular performance hadn’t yet showcased all of Sherlock’s skills.

Feeling a strange duality of wanting this to continue while wanting it to stop, John groaned loudly as Sherlock managed to get his briefs all the way down, both hands behind his back by now, the cloth falling to John’s feet to also be nudged across the floor. Sherlock began flickering his lips and tongue back along John’s length, back towards the glans, and John could feel his cock twitching at each caress, helpless to stop it. 

Sherlock’s hands were still behind his back. 

Why? Why didn’t Sherlock want to touch him? John was sure if Sherlock would just  _ touch  _ him, just put his hands on John’s stomach or grab his hips, or even his hand, this strange,  _ off _ feeling would go away. 

“Sherlock…” he gasped, trying to get some of his language skills back, but then Sherlock swallowed him down with a practiced hum and then there was nothing left in the room but that tight, hot, wet space…

Hands…

_ Hands! _

John remembered that morning, the moment when Sherlock had realized he was restrained - it was just about the only time during the experience that he hadn’t looked… well,  _ bored. _

Sherlock hummed again, and John thought he was going to black out, but then the man withdrew slightly, obviously gearing up to do something else. His hands were still firmly behind his back, and John remembered that he had only brought them into play this morning when he evidently decided it was time for John to come. Was he… was he showing John what he really wanted?

John had spent all day feeling elated but inadequate - he did not intend to continue. 

“Sherlock, stop,” he said, in as firm a tone as he could muster. 

The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock released him and sat back, head snapping up, eyes dark and questioning. His lips were red and shining with saliva. 

John took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm his thundering heart and ignore his aching, heavy cock. He reached out both hands and ran them straight into Sherlock’s hair, from his forehead to his nape, cradling his head as something precious. Sherlock’s eyes fell closed and his head tipped back as John leaned down, sealing their lips and licking into his mouth, tasting the salt and musk of himself on Sherlock’s tongue, another throb echoing through his cock. Sherlock returned the action, stroking and tasting John as well, but his hands still did not come up to touch any part of John. They were still tucked away, behind his back…

_ Right then. _

John pulled back, releasing Sherlock’s hair. For the first time, Sherlock was looking a little dazed himself. 

“Up,” John said, palms out. Sherlock glanced at them, confused, but brought his hands around and put them in John’s with tentative grace. John gave a tug and Sherlock stood up, reminding John that even though he himself was naked from the waist down, Sherlock was still fully dressed. Moving to the side, he nudged Sherlock next to the table, experienced that height difference again but knowing a new way around it. “Up,” he said again, patting the expanse of table next to the microscope and watching Sherlock’s face avidly for a reaction. 

A slight frown of confusion again, a little line appearing in between his brows. John raised his own, looking from Sherlock and back to the table again meaningfully, trying to keep his stern face from betraying his anxiety. 

He needn’t have worried though, as Sherlock rucked up his dressing gown slightly and hopped up onto the large stretch of table, only some random ingredients from the previous night needing to be moved out of the way before he turned around. John stepped forward, and Sherlock immediately parted his knees, allowing him to get closer for another kiss. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back, holding him close, revelling in the feel of those long thighs pressed on either side of his own. The angle was slightly wrong for him to be able to align their hips, but as his cock made contact with Sherlock’s pajama pants he couldn’t help but rock in place gently, moaning into the kiss. Again, Sherlock was kissing back, quite enthusiastically, but his hands were back behind his back. 

_ Hmmm. _

John pulled away again, letting his hands wander down to Sherlock’s arse and rest there, stroking in circles. Sherlock moved his arms and hands out of the way, and leaned forward, trying to capture John’s lips in another kiss. 

“No,” said John without thinking. He was trying to marshall his thoughts and gather the nerve to try out an idea forming in his mind, but if he kept kissing Sherlock he wasn’t going to be able to do that. 

Sherlock recoiled. John felt it through his entire body, everywhere Sherlock’s was connected to his own. His curly head snapped back, his ribcage contracted, the lean thighs pressed against his tensed up. John looked in his eyes, at his face. There was an edge of that desperation there now as there had been that morning, like Sherlock needed something, needing him to do something…

_ Just do it.  _

John stroked Sherlock’s thighs once more, and stepped away, maintaining eye contact. The desperate look intensified, though it was obvious that Sherlock was trying to control his expression. His breathing had noticeably sped up as well, so John knew he was on to something. He took another step away, then another, a taught line of tension stretching between them as he saw Sherlock’s foot begin to twitch, but he had reached his goal. 

Pausing for a moment to remove his jumper as he was starting to sweat, John then bent down to the floor and retrieved his belt from where it had landed. Sherlock’s eyes zeroed in on it in milliseconds, growing huge for a moment, gaze moving from it back to John a couple times, stupefied… but then all that was gone. His face relaxed, going from the taught, almost frightened expression of when John had been moving away to something much more peaceful. Even his eyes relaxed, going back to normal, and his breathing slowed back down. 

“This is what you want, right?” John asked, threading the end of the belt back through the buckle, watching Sherlock’s reactions. He stepped back up to where Sherlock was sitting, nudged his knees back apart with his legs and stepped forward so his cock met Sherlock’s thigh again. Sherlock blinked at him, eyelids seeming to move very slowly, lashes fanning down, then up. John leaned in and kissed him, firm but slow and closed-mouthed, sliding his arms back around that thin torso again, still holding his belt. He stroked that silk-covered back a couple of times, then reached for Sherlock’s wrists. This time, Sherlock didn’t try to pull his hands away, but relaxed even further, becoming almost boneless in between John’s arms. “I’ll take care of you,” John promised, whispering it directly into Sherlock’s ear as he tugged gently on one wrist, slipping the loop of the belt around it. Holding that in place with one hand, with the other he guided Sherlock’s other hand, until both were together and the wide leather looped around them. Sherlock had sagged, head resting on John’s shoulder. He could feel the steady and strong thump of his heart where their chests were joined. John kissed him just below the ear, then pulled on the end of the belt slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to change his mind. 

He didn’t. 

John pulled the belt tight, keeping one finger next to Sherlock’s wrist to make sure it didn’t cut off the circulation, threading the end by feel through the small leather loop in order to keep it in place. Sherlock’s head was still on his shoulder, that silky soft hair stroking against John’s neck. He was so peaceful, he could have been sleeping. 

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly, trying not to startle him - but he might as well have shouted. Sherlock’s head quickly came up, he straightened his spine, and he sucked in a breath through his mouth, blinking quickly. 

“Yes?” Sherlock asked, and John couldn’t help but smile. The voice was raspy and quiet, but it was there. 

Maybe this whole S&M thing wasn’t that scary or difficult after all. 

“Is it too tight?” John asked, and watched as Sherlock flexed his hands, considering. 

“No,” he said finally, composure once again returning, posture relaxing.

_ He must really like this.  _

“Good,” John said, feeling more confident than he had at any point since first kissing Sherlock on the stairs. Getting some of his old bravado back, he slid his arms around Sherlock again, but this time he grabbed both of his plump arse cheeks and pulled him sharply forwards, sliding him right to the edge of the table, groins meeting as Sherlock’s thighs were forced even further apart. Sherlock took another deep breath, this time through his nose, but he was still calm and pliant in John’s embrace. John rocked his pelvis, little thrusts he could barely control, less disturbed this time when he realized Sherlock wasn’t hard yet. He must just be like that, only getting fully aroused when someone took charge properly. 

John could do that. 

He kissed Sherlock again, more desperate now, continuing to rock his hips in place, cock rubbing against the seam of Sherlock’s trousers. He moved his hands to Sherlock’s hips, holding him in place as he moved, feeling Sherlock begin to get hard against him, and felt another surge of confidence. Grabbing the waistband of the pajama bottoms with one hand, he pulled them downwards while pulling upwards on Sherlock’s hip with the other hand. Sherlock got the message, leaning back on his hands and raising his hips so John could pull the offending item down and off, revealing his long pink cock where it was plumping beautifully against his thigh. 

John growled, something primal starting to wake up inside, and stared for a moment in satisfaction at this image of sin itself trussed up on their kitchen table. Sherlock was still leaning back on his bound hands, arms taught, blue silk falling off one shoulder and pooling around him like molten wings, T-shirt stretched after John’s ministrations, naked from the waist down and cock getting harder by the second. His hair was a halo, his expression almost overwhelmed, mouth hanging open as he took in deep measured breaths of air. John felt his balls tighten just at the sight of him. 

Pushing back forward, he grabbed Sherlock’s hips again - Sherlock locked his legs around his waist so that he wouldn’t fall off the table, and oh, wasn’t that amazing… their erections rubbed together, and John felt like he might die right then and there for the rush of heat and need that pulsed along every vein. Not ready to die just yet, his hips took over their rocking anew, this time thrusting harder and faster, establishing a rhythm. Sherlock leaned back even further, arms taking his weight behind him, and his head tipped back exposing his throat as he gasped for air. The whole table was rocking slightly as John kept up the pace. 

“God,” John gasped, knowing he was getting close. “Sherlock, you… you are so beautiful, so  _ fucking beautiful _ …” he babbled out endearments, though he was unable to see if Sherlock was even hearing him. The sensations on his cock were almost enough, but not quite, and John realised what they were missing as he spotted the olive oil almost sliding off the other side of the table along with various other items. Getting one knee up on the table next to Sherlock’s hip was enough to help him reach past Sherlock to grab for it, the head of his cock disappearing for a moment up inside Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock gasped and sort of  _ wriggled _ in place, and John jumped down hurriedly, hands shaking in his haste to open the bottle. He slicked his hands up, grabbed Sherlock by both thighs and pulled him forward with one strong move so the man’s hips were canted upwards, cock standing up. Sherlock made a mewling sound, then after some torso contortions he was laying down, elbows bent, trussed hands somewhere underneath him and panting quickly. 

John could barely think straight, he felt like he was literally going to  _ explode, _ bits and pieces of both their bodies strewn hither and thither all over the kitchen, nothing left. He bent forward over Sherlock and wrapped one slicked hand around both their erections, palm and fingers just wide enough to accommodate them both - but it was enough. Sherlock mewled again, a kind of high-pitched cry that was more breath than anything, and his hips twitched upwards as if against his will, thrusting his cock through John’s curled hand. John started to thrust further as well, but at one point a bit too enthusiastically, as his cock slipped from his uncoordinated grip and on his next thrust brushed up and under Sherlock’s arse cheeks. 

Sherlock stopped - not froze, not tensed, just… stopped. There had been one indrawn gasp of air as he felt the new position, abruptly cut off, and John stopped everything as well, looking up at him; but Sherlock’s face was turned away. 

Well, John tried to stop everything. He was so close to coming he could cry, and even as he tried to lock his legs in place there were still tiny rocking motions happening. It did not help that having his cock there in between Sherlock’s plump, delicious-looking arse cheeks felt  _ amazing _ … Sherlock began to quiver a little as well. 

“Not yet,” John managed to say, pulling himself back by using what felt like his one remaining braincell. “That’s… I mean… we can…” He stopped himself, not even knowing what he was saying. He didn’t know if he even wanted that, or would ever want to do that with Sherlock, and if that was what Sherlock wanted… well, best cross that bridge when they came to it. 

Abandoning language, he got back into position, wrapping his hand around both of them and beginning to thrust and find a rhythm again. After a few moments, Sherlock began to move as well, and John felt the tension that was building back up in his own body begin to build in the one underneath him as well. 

“Come on, gorgeous,” he said encouragingly, gripping harder. “Come for me, that’s it. Just like that, oh,  _ fuck…” _

The heat reached a crescendo and he lost his grip, grabbing the table and thrusting uncoordinated as he came, and came, and came. It felt like the heat was being drawn up the back of his legs to coalesce and spurt from his cock, painting Sherlock’s crotch and T-shirt and the silk robe beneath. Gasping, he reached for Sherlock’s straining length and gave it one rough, come-slicked twist, and then Sherlock was there as well. His thighs locked like two iron bars around John’s waist, his spine lifted and bridged, little gasping cries finding their way out into the room before they were cut off.

John slumped forward once it seemed like Sherlock was done, feeling absolutely spent. He remembered then his original purpose of coming into the kitchen - to ask Sherlock on a date. A vanilla, ‘normal’, candlelit dinner romantic date. Laying here, now, in this state, it seemed absolutely  _ ludicrous. _

John snorted with laughter, letting out a few guffaws against Sherlock’s chest before he could stop himself. The mixture of endorphins and aching muscles and nowhere near enough sleep were taking their toll. 

Gathering himself, he pulled himself up. Sherlock remained laying on the table, face still turned away, breathing slowing down. 

“Hey,” John said. No reaction. “Come on, sit up.” 

There was a pause, then Sherlock very slowly turned his head to look up at the ceiling, then raised himself into a sitting position. 

John’s stomach dropped. 

Blood. There was blood on Sherlock’s lip where he had bitten it - that’s why those cries had been cut off so absolutely. 

“Shit!” John said, jumping backwards and turning to get some paper towels. When he turned back around, Sherlock was watching him owlishly. He looked… stunned. The literal version of stunned, like someone had whacked him over the head with a heavy object and knocked something loose. 

“Shit, shit, shit…” John mumbled, realising his hands were covered in oil, among other things. “Wait a second…” He moved around the table and washed his hands and up to his elbows quickly with the dish soap, drying off with the paper towels then grabbing some more. He turned, able to see Sherlock now from the back, and groaned in upset. Sherlock’s wrists were red and irritated - they must have been wrenched far more out of position than John thought they would be when he had laid down on the table on his back. In fact, looking closer, that must have really hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, feeling a lead ball of guilt in his gut where just a few short minutes ago had been elation. He leaned over and undid the belt, watching Sherlock clench and release his hands as he did so. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, hurrying around to the other side with fresh paper towels ready to attend to Sherlock’s lip - but Sherlock had sucked it into his mouth and raised his arm to wipe away the blood with his sleeve. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” John chided, pulling his arm away. Sherlock dropped his arm and looked at him curiously. The concussed-look was going away, and the blank expression was returning. John raised his hand holding the paper towel, intending to dab at the wound, but the look that flashed across Sherlock’s eyes at the sight of it gave him pause. There was a crack in the calm facade, for just a second, but in that second John saw such depth of vulnerability he was unable to fully process it. 

Maybe Sherlock didn’t want to be coddled? He usually didn’t, so it made sense… didn’t it?

“Here,” John said, handing the wad of tissue over. Sherlock took it apparently on reflex, as he spent a few seconds looking down at it in his hand as if he had no idea what it was for, before raising it up to his face. John winced as the robe sleeve fell down, revealing the chafed skin underneath, angry red lines raised on the soft pale skin of his wrists. 

“Are you alright?” John asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. Cool blue eyes regarded him for a moment, then tracked where he was looking and examined the raised skin they found. Sherlock hummed - a tired-sounding affirmative from behind the wad of tissue, then pulled that away to inspect it as well. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, thankfully, and it looked a lot less serious than John initially thought: a nick in the delicate skin, but one that would heal quickly. 

“I really made a mess of you, didn’t I?” John lamented. Sherlock shrugged, gaze starting to wander, possibly looking for what happened to his clothes. “Oh, here,” John said, a little awkward, scooping Sherlock’s trousers from off the floor and handing them over. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly, voice even raspier than before. John had a flash of the deep, passionate breathing that Sherlock had been engaged in up on the table… he flushed, turning to find his own trousers and pulled them on, hearing Sherlock behind him doing the same. When he turned back, Sherlock was dressed again, though he had taken the gown off and was wrapping it into a ball. 

“That’ll need a wash,” John said, feeling yet more awkward. Sherlock just looked at him. 

He looked tired.

How was it possible than a half hour ago they had been a combined mess of writhing limbs, groaning and thrusting and..., and now they were standing two feet apart, with no way that John could see to come back together. 

All John wanted right then was to cross that suddenly cold space and gather Sherlock up and hold him close to his chest. He wanted to feel those long arms come up and hold him close in reciprocation, wanted to whisper endearments into curly hair, wanted to be invited into his room, wanted to laugh and share secrets under the covers and kiss and kiss until they fell asleep, together…

But Sherlock was stepping away, without him. 

“Going to bed?” John asked, feeling desperate. 

Sherlock paused. He still had a watchful look about him - as if not sure what John was going to do next. 

It didn’t suit him. 

“Yes,” he said, eventually. “You?” The rasp of a damaged throat was gone, but his voice was still soft, softer than John was used to. 

“I… yes.” John said, disappointed. “Been a long few days, hasn’t it?” 

Sherlock didn’t respond. He just stood there, watching still, the dressing gown a ball in his hand, his T-shirt stained. 

“Yeah,” John answered his own question, the awkwardness starting to get to uncomfortable levels. “So… yeah. I’m going to turn in.” He made for the door leading from the kitchen to the landing slowly, hoping to be called back. 

He wasn’t. 

“I’ll… I’ll just use the shower, OK? Or do you want to go first?” 

Sherlock gestured with his free hand towards the door, indicating that John could go. John’s eyes lingered on the marks on his wrist, guilt gnawing at the bottom of his rib cage, then turned away. Sherlock obviously didn’t want him there. He couldn’t tell if it were because he was upset, or if this were just par for the course. John had known he wasn’t the sentimental type, Sherlock had even told him so, on multiple occasions… So why was John’s chest aching so much to get the man in question back into his arms?

He would just have to try and let all that go. If Sherlock didn’t want the romance, the cuddling, the pillow talk… John couldn’t force him. He would just have to learn to live without it - because whatever he could have with Sherlock, was worth it. He would rather have this, this rather odd physical relationship, than push for things that weren’t wanted and lose Sherlock completely. 

When John came back out of the bathroom, intending to find Sherlock and say goodnight, the kitchen was empty, the table cleaned, and the lights were off. 

Sherlock’s bedroom door was closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are finding this fic interesting, drop some kudos to let me know. As always, I'd love to hear your opinions in the comments.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags.

John didn’t sleep well. He kept waking up, arm outstretched across the bed, grasping at the air - feeling confused each time to find that he was alone. The third time it happened, he had sat up and planted his feet on the floor, intent on going downstairs to knock on that forbidding, closed door, before he woke up enough to reconsider. If Sherlock hadn’t invited him into his bedroom earlier, then going down and knocking on the door at 4am and waking him up was hardly going to change his mind. 

John did eventually manage to get to sleep, but it was not restful, and by 9am he was fully awake yet feeling for all the world that he never laid down. Rubbing his eyes blearily he stumbled down the stairs, expecting to see Sherlock already typing away on his laptop on the couch as was his pattern. 

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, his bedroom door still closed. Frowning, John turned to check the coat rack - the Belstaff and scarf were still there, strongly suggesting that on this cold October morning that Sherlock was still there too. Sleeping in then? That wasn’t like him - unless the post-case crash was still going on? He’d had plenty of time to sleep the previous day though, when John had been at work…

John went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, caught between wanting to act as he usually did and wanting to be quiet. If Sherlock was in the midst of the post-case crash, nothing would wake him up save for a foghorn in the ear. But if this wasn’t the post-case crash, if it was something else…

Something like him avoiding John…

Then… John didn’t know what to do. Part of his bad night’s sleep was the guilt that was still plaguing him - he really hadn’t wanted Sherlock to get hurt, but that’s what had happened. He was usually a very considerate lover, wanting to be sure it was going to rank high in the other’s list of great sexual experiences. Yes, he could get rough when the other liked and asked for it, but none of his partners had left the encounter physically injured. 

Until now. 

Wandering back into the kitchen, he felt a warm wave of heat flow over his face and neck when his gaze skittered across the kitchen table that had seen so much action the previous night. That had easily been one of the sexiest,  _ naughtiest  _ bit of sexcapades he had been involved in, but the gleeful and aroused feelings of remembering it were dampened massively by the image of Sherlock’s chafed wrists that seemed burned into his retinas. The bitten lip had been almost as bad, but at least Sherlock had bitten it himself. The wrists were all on John. 

Shaking himself, he tried to remember that Sherlock had not seemed distraught or troubled at all. In fact, judging by what John knew of Irene Adler, Sherlock was probably used to something a lot more inventive and extreme with his sexual partners. Yes, it was hard to get a read on him, but if his temperamental flatmate was really in a mood, usually the whole street knew about it. And OK sure, his actions and reactions during sex were different than what John was expecting, but just because they were sleeping together now hardly meant that Sherlock was going to have a personality transplant. He was probably going to appear by striding purposefully out from his room, calling, _ ‘Case, John,’ _ and expect John to get up and blindly follow. 

Which of course John would, he thought with a rueful smile as he grabbed a banana and yoghurt for breakfast, turning on the kettle. Even though he was due at the surgery at eleven and it was now nine-thirty…

Still nothing from Sherlock’s room. 

Swallowing his breakfast down without really tasting it, John lingered in the kitchen longer than was necessary, eyes moving from door to door. By ten, he really needed to get ready, so he reluctantly went back up to his room to change. Back down by ten fifteen, and things were just as he left them - no Sherlock. By ten thirty, John knew he was going to be late, but it was like he couldn’t pull himself away from the flat. Was Sherlock alright? Was he angry with John? Was he embarrassed and avoiding him? What did it mean? 

Did it mean anything?

That was the big question of course. He knew how he felt about Sherlock - in love, besotted, devoted, obsessed - these words barely covered the depth and strength of John’s feelings about the man. What Sherlock felt about him remained a mystery. He was obviously interested enough in John’s friendship, and as of yesterday John could confirm he was also interested in his body ( _ ‘I want you, too _ …’ echoed in his ear in that deep, silky purr, making his breath hitch) but aside from that… Did Sherlock love him back?

John retreated from that thought even as he gave up on waiting and rushed out of the door. He couldn’t think about that. Sherlock wasn’t like that - didn’t want that. If he did, then there would be more cuddling, more sharing, more time spent together, more…  _ care, _ right?

Sherlock cared... just not as much as John did. And that was OK. It was fine, thought John to himself, dashing down the road. 

It would be fine. 

*************************************************

John’s phone chimed with a message notification just as he was finishing his shift that evening. 

_ Murder. Lestrade said a 7. Covent garden. Come if convenient. SH.  _

John grinned, the feeling of relief at seeing that short message making him stand taller, as if something heavy and ugly had been sitting on his shoulders. He supposed it was not good to be grinning at such a text, but he didn’t care - Sherlock was not ignoring him. It had all been in his head - he had had a horrible, long day of telling himself that he wasn’t obsessing over the lack of flatmate in the kitchen this morning, but also had been unable to stop. Worse and worse-case scenarios had been unfolding in his mind as he treated patients - anything from Sherlock passed-out from a drug-induced haze, to Sherlock stone cold sober and throwing John out of the flat when he got home. But all of that was just his idiotic brain spinning - there was nothing wrong. Sherlock had probably just been in his mind-palace that morning, or reading in bed, or even sleeping. 

_ The man is allowed to sleep, _ John chided himself, the worries of the day appearing silly and fanciful now. He felt a bit exasperated with himself, but nothing was going to stop the happy bounce in his feet as he sped out from the clinic and along the street to find a cab. Once in the cab, he texted Lestrade for the address and was soon speeding along. 

Was Sherlock going to be any different in front of people they knew? It was possible - anything was possible with Sherlock - but John wished he were a bit better prepared. It wasn’t that he wasn’t proud to be with Sherlock (if that was even an accurate description), but some of the Yarders could be cutting and cruel. He hoped they would keep their comments to themselves, because if anyone was mean to Sherlock due to their change in status, then John was not going to hold himself responsible for his actions. 

Then again, it was also a strong possibility that Sherlock would be just as he always was - focused completely on the case, ignoring social conventions and ordering everyone around like he was lord of the crime-scene. 

John hoped so. 

The cab arrived, and John soon found himself shouldering past uniformed officers and walking into a florist’s shop. Sherlock and Lestrade had their backs to the door, peering over the body of a man which seemed to have been thrown into the floral display: smashed vases, flowers and water in a complex mess all around him. Upon entering, John sneezed a couple times. 

“Allergies?” Lestrade asked by way of greeting, standing up to shake John’s hand. 

“John doesn’t have any allergies,” Sherlock said from his crouched position on the floor. 

“Not usually, no,” John confirmed, smiling and relaxing further. Business as usual then. Perfect. “But then again I’m not usually in flower shops,” he added. 

“You have bought flowers for at least three women in this past year,” Sherlock said, standing up and turning to hand John some sterile gloves. His face was impassive, but John felt like that had been a dig of some kind. 

Maybe not business as usual after all. 

“Well, yeah, but…” he trailed off, glancing at Greg who was now looking through the desk and cash register.

_ But I’m not going to do that anymore, am I? ...But I won’t be seeing any more women, will I? ...But I don’t know if you like flowers, do I? _

Each of these presented themselves as an end to the sentence he had started, and each were quickly judged as inappropriate to the situation as the last. He kept his mouth shut, and after a beat Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his silence but mercifully returned back to the corpse. 

“Come and tell me what you think,” Sherlock said, and John walked over and crouched next to him, snapping on the gloves and able to see the face of the victim properly for the first time. 

“Oh, eww…” 

He could  _ feel  _ Sherlock roll his eyes.

“I hope that isn’t going to be your only contribution,” Sherlock said, a little waspishly. 

“Alright genius, hang on,” John said, equal parts irritated with Sherlock’s usual snideness and over-the-moon at the normality of it. 

The victim was laying among the remains of the fresh flower display as John had seen, but his mouth had also been stuffed with flowers, as if both mouth and throat were a vase. The arrangement was complex, containing at least five kinds of flower that John could see, and peering closer he could see that the mouth had first been stuffed with that green foam that florists all seemed to use. Leaning closer, John could see ligature marks around the neck, bruises already forming. Glancing around, he spotted a roll of ribbon in among the mess, but something still seemed off..

“Greg, can I get closer?” 

“Sure, he’s already been photographed. Have at it.” Greg answered from the desk, still rummaging. 

John took a few steps over the mess of flowers and glass, then crouched again by the victim’s head. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, but he knew that the detective would wait until John was ready to give his analysis without rushing him. Of course he would then probably say that everything John had said was wrong, but still, John smiled to himself. 

He removed the flowers and packing, pulled the corpse’s mouth open and peered inside, then looked up the nose as well. He checked the eyes, inside the ear canals, and looked more closely at the bruised neck. Satisfied but confused, he stood back up, peeling off the gloves, and moved to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock was still crouching and looked up at him. 

John swallowed. The sight of those eyes looking up through those lashes, in this position,  _ again, _ … crime scenes were going to be quite the exercise in restraint, it seemed. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then blinked quickly as he too appeared to register their relative positions and what they reminded him of. 

He didn’t stand up. 

John frowned down at him, waiting for a moment, then remembered something else from the previous night…

"Up,” he said firmly, extending both hands. Sherlock blinked again, then put his leather-gloved hands in John’s, embers smouldering in his eyes. John tugged, and Sherlock rose in one fluid motion. Glancing at Greg again (who remained oblivious), John quickly released Sherlock’s hands, but not before giving them a quick squeeze. The flare in Sherlock’s face intensified for a moment, but then it passed and he looked down with assessing efficiency back at the corpse. 

“What do you see?” he asked. Greg came back to join them, interested. 

“He drowned,” John said, gratified that Greg gasped in shock next to him. “There is froth in his mouth and nose, indicative of drowning. The strangulation marks were either made at the same time, or just after death. The flower arrangement in his mouth is professional, or at least done by a keen amateaur. So, drowned in the sink? Then the ribbon was wrapped around his throat and he was thrown onto the flowers and turned into a vase?”

“Very good John,” Sherlock said approvingly. John waited, and was not disappointed. “But almost completely wrong. Now, if you consider the choice of the blue ribbon…”

********************************************

The case dragged on into the next week. Sherlock of course had a list of probable suspects within minutes, but then the more difficult task of checking them off the list began. This involved their usual fare of following people, internet stalking and a little light breaking-and-entering, all of which Lestrade would swear blind later that he knew nothing about. Out there on the case, everything seemed almost normal to John. Sherlock was his bossy self, doling out barbed remarks to anyone too stupid to speak up at the wrong time - but he also looked to John more, almost like he was looking for his… approval? 

At home though… it was… awkward wasn’t the right word. Careful? 

The easy camaraderie they had enjoyed before was gone - let alone the good morning kisses and domesticity of fleeting touches that John had privately dreamed of. It was as if Sherlock’s personal bubble had grown by some huge degree. Where it had previously been almost non-existent, now it extended at least two feet all around him in a circle. John knew, because as soon as he put one toe over it, he was being watched. 

It wasn’t overt - Sherlock was too clever for that, but it was there in the stiffening of his posture, the shift in breathing pattern, subtle body movements. When John got too close, Sherlock’s senses picked him up like an external security system, and he was sure Sherlock tracked his every move until he was safely back over the invisible line. 

It was an extremely unwelcome development, but John kept telling himself that it wasn’t really all that surprising - when on a case, Sherlock turned down sleep and food and barely maintained the basic level of personal hygiene, so it was only logical that he would turn down other, more interesting distractions as well. The weird thing was though, there had been other changes - Sherlock  _ was  _ sleeping. At least, he was sleeping in the mornings. The second day that John had found himself downstairs without a breakfast partner, Sherlock’s door had been slightly ajar. Peering around it, John saw that Sherlock was curled up on his side, soundly asleep. It wasn’t an act: not even Sherlock could look that out of it by design. He remained in a deep, unmoving sleep until after ten, when he emerged looking befuddled for a moment before looking to drag his brain back online and get back to the problems of the case at hand. Though the next morning the door was closed, from the state he was in when he came out of his room John could tell that the long, deep sleeps were continuing. 

The sleep didn’t seem to be doing any good, either. The thin skin under Sherlock’s eyes looked softly painted with smoke, and he seemed ...listless. He reacted to things a little slower, his phone ringing or the post arriving - everything, aside from John’s presence. John’s presence caused that watchful reaction, immediately. Like flicking a switch. 

He was quieter too. Not at the Yard, not when arguing with possible suspects - there he was just as animated and loud as usual - just at home. He would answer John’s questions when asked, but he wasn’t starting conversations. His voice was pitched differently as well, like he was trying to keep all of the inflections out of it. After four days, John realized that he couldn’t recall the last time he had seen Sherlock smile, or heard him laugh. The easy banter between them was gone, and John missed it terribly. He missed bumping shoulders with Sherlock in the kitchen as they squabbled over the food delivery. He missed hearing him shout in annoyance over the expository parts of bad films. He missed his dark, sarcastic humor as John read aloud the city’s trials and tribulations from the morning paper. 

John missed him. 

How could it be, that two frantic but amazing physical encounters had caused their relationship to cool, rather than ignite? How was it that Sherlock was becoming more cold and aloof than before, and seemed further away from John than he ever had?

Even Mrs. Hudson had noticed the change. On day five he ran into her on the stairs as he went on a run to the shops, already listing in his head the things that he might persuade Sherlock to eat if they were left in strategic places around the living room. 

“Oh John, I’m glad I caught you,” she said, coming in through the front door. She had a shopping bag in each hand, and John rushed to take them for her. 

“Mrs. H, you should have sent me a list, I can get this stuff for you,” he said, heading to her flat. 

“That’s good of you dear,” she said, closing the front door and following him, “but it’s good for me to get out, you know.”

John waited while she opened the door to her flat and then deposited the bags on her kitchen table. 

“You said you were glad you caught me?” he asked, trying to surreptitiously look her over, wondering if she might be feeling unwell. “Everything alright?”

“Don’t worry Doctor, I’m fine,” she assured him, taking off her scarf and coat and slinging them over one of the chairs. She moved to the bags to start unpacking them, and John joined in. “It’s Sherlock I’m worried about.” John’s stomach twisted. 

“Oh?”

“Hmmm yes,” she said, pulling out cans of tomatoes and soups. “Has he come down with something?”

“Oh,” John said again, taken by surprise. “You think he’s sick?” Mrs. Hudson paused in what she was doing and gave him an odd look. 

“Well you would know better than me, dear,” she said, peering at him. John blushed, starting to unpack the fruit and vegetables. 

“True. No, he’s not sick. He’s just got a case on,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. 

_ Was _ Sherlock sick though? It would explain the sleeping, the lethargy, the lack of focus… No. John might be off his game at the moment due to navigating their new relationship, but he was still a doctor - and a good one at that. Sherlock wasn’t sick. But… if even Mrs. Hudson had noticed, there might be something else wrong. 

“Why do you ask?” he said, trying to root out some more information. 

“He seems a bit down is all,” she said, opening and closing cupboards. “Hasn’t been playing his violin, sleeping like a stone in the mornings when I take him his tea. I put some bills on the table the other day and yesterday I found them on the mantle - he didn’t even stab them.”

“That might be a good thing,” John ventured, making a mental note to make sure those bills got paid. 

“If you say so dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, doubtfully. “The strangest thing though was yesterday - I went in to bring you both some scones while you were at work. He wasn’t in the living room, he was in his room - the door was a bit open, I didn’t mean to pry - and he was sitting on the floor. Just sat there next to his bed, leaning against it, not doing anything. It was almost as if he was waiting for something.” 

John stared at her. 

“That’s… that is strange,” he said, unable to think of another response. Because it was. He had never seen Sherlock do that before. Sherlock had various places and poses he went back to in the flat when he wanted to think or look for something in his mind palace, but sitting on the floor of his bedroom was not one of them. 

John tried not to think of the last time he had seen Sherlock sitting on his bedroom floor… at least, not until he was somewhere more private. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson said, tutting. “Seemed so lonely, you know?” 

_ Lonely? _

_ Sherlock? _

Sherlock didn’t like people. He spent a lot of his time alone, and when there were too many people around he usually had some choice words armed and ready in order to thin the crowd.  _ Lonely _ was not a word that John associated with him. And yet, picturing him the way Mrs. Hudson was describing the scene… he wondered if there could be something to it. 

They were quiet as they finished off Mrs. Hudson’s unpacking, and John readied himself to go buy their own groceries. 

“Maybe you could try cheering him up?” she suggested as he headed for the door. He turned and looked at her, questioning. “Get him something he likes, or take him out somewhere.”

“You know he won’t go anywhere while a case is on,” John said, musing. “Not unless there’s another body or a potential suspect there.”

“Oh, I don’t know then,” she said, wringing her hands a little and sighing. “He just seems… off. I don’t like to see him like that.”

“Neither do I,” he assured her, and she gave him a significant look. John wondered if her mind had made a worried little leap just then as well, as his had - a leap towards syringes, and powders, and A&E visits. He knew in some nebulous sense that his flatmate and… lover?... had once been a drug user, and that his brother Mycroft, and to some extent Lestrade, worried that he still had the potential to return to that bad habit. But he didn’t know how serious it had been, or any details. When Lestrade had pulled the fake drugs bust back when John first met Sherlock, John hadn’t believed it at all, and even once he did he had assumed they were talking about a stupid kid snorting the occasional line of coke at a college party. Then Sherlock had rolled his sleeves up, snarling that he was clean, and John had gone cold at the implication that there might have been track marks there, before. Track marks could mean coke, which was bad enough yes, but more likely they meant other things. 

Heroin. Meth. Other addictive opioids. 

Addictive. Addict. Drug addict. 

_ Junkie.  _

John shook himself. There was nothing to indicate that Sherlock was even thinking about drugs at the moment, let alone using them… but it was always going to be a thought that lurked at the back of his mind. At the back of other people’s minds, too. 

“I’ll see what I can find at the shops,” he said, nodding to himself. “Ginger biscuits?” he asked her, hating how inadequate it sounded. 

“Crystalized ginger would be even better,” she said, nodding back. “And maybe go in the butcher’s and see if they’ve got something… you know, something he can cut up and experiment on.” She waved her hands vaguely, and John felt a spark of warmth and affection for this woman who had accepted Sherlock so completely, that she thought nothing at all of suggesting John buy animal organs for him to dissect in order to cheer him up. 

“Good idea,” he said with a smile. “Not sure where to get crystalized ginger though?”

“Hotel Chocolate, at Marylebone tube station,” she said, smiling. “Just cut through…”

“York Street, got it,” said John, giving her a wave. “Thanks Mrs. H!”

“You take good care of him,” she called as he jogged down the stairs. 

“I will!”

_ I will. _

*********************************************

John decided to go to a different mini-supermarket that was between the flat and the chocolate shop in order to save time and to find something odd for Sherlock to chop up. On the way there, he thought about what Sherlock’s reaction to the gift of the ginger might be. Would he grace John with one of his rare (and these days, rarer) smiles? Would he scoff and pout and pretend he wasn’t pleased, which was when John could tell he was the most pleased?

Or would he wonder why John was suddenly buying him presents... 

Because that’s what it was, John realized, slowing down his pace. It was quite obviously a present, bought for no reason other than John wanting to show that he cared. He had bought Sherlock a present for Christmas, but that was literally the only other time he had done so - he remembered again with a pang that he didn’t even know when Sherlock’s birthday was. Sherlock had never told him. Too sentimental. 

John slowed to a stop.

_ Couples _ bought each other presents. Chocolates and flowers. John thought back to the crime scene, and Sherlock’s little jab about how John had bought flowers for his dates. It had certainly suggested that Sherlock thought little of the practice. What was he going to think then, when John presented him with a posh box of confectionary? That they were a couple - that John thought that they were a couple?

Sentimental. Normal. 

_ Dull. _

Did gay blokes buy their other halves presents? Little fun things for the other, to cheer them up?  _ They must do, _ John thought, beginning to walk again though still slowly. It was a totally OK thing for him to do. Everyone did it, of all genders and orientations. Plus, he didn’t have to  _ declare  _ anything, he could just hand it over, very casual-like. He could even blame it on Mrs. Hudson’s suggestion, if pressed…

John groaned internally at his own thoughts. He and Sherlock had shagged,  _ twice, _ for God’s sake. He had shouted out the man’s name in uncontrollable ecstasy - Sherlock had done that to him, with some enthusiasm - at least at that point in proceedings. So why was it so ridiculous to think that John might be allowed to give him a gift?

Still in a tangle, John spotted the supermarket up ahead, and resolved to do that shopping first while he considered the other. He was probably just being an idiot. Sherlock loved ginger, he knew that, and Mrs. Hudson was quite right that he seemed down - possibly over the case. Buying him something to make him happy was a perfectly reasonable thing to do…

John’s eyes landed on something surprising then. He hadn’t been down this street for a while and couldn’t remember what the shop in front of him had been, but he was pretty sure it hadn’t been this… He looked up at the sign, thrown.

“Racy’s” was written in purple on a black sign, and in case there had been any doubts, “Sex Toy Emporium” was written in curling script underneath it. The window display was simple - drapes of black satin concealing plinths of varying heights, with a few expensive looking items in pride of place on each one. A lace and feather eye mask. A futuristic-looking vibrator. A riding crop, very similar to Sherlock’s, aside from the diamante-encrusted handle…

John suddenly felt exposed, glancing left and right and blushing. He stepped away from the display, tripping over his feet slightly in his rush to get into the supermarket. He wondered if anyone had seen him, and felt like turning up his jacket collar as Sherlock did in order to hide his flaming face and neck. 

Not that there was anything wrong with shops like that, he tried to tell himself. Perfectly fine, if you were into that sort of thing. 

_ Like Sherlock is, _ his mind supplied, helpfully. 

Scowling at the bread display, John tried to dislodge that thought. He would buy their shopping, then walk the further five minutes to the chocolate shop, and buy the crystalized ginger for Sherlock. No matter what his reaction, John would feel better for taking that small step towards some kind of further connection. And if Sherlock couldn’t cope with receiving even the smallest token of John’s affections, well then he was just going to have to get over himself and get used to it, because there would be more where that came from. 

Feeling better, John got on with the shopping, happy with the decision that he definitely wasn’t going to be checking out the mysterious shop next door.

*******************************************

The inside of the shop was a lot more well-lit than John was expecting. Cursing his own anxiety, he had darted from the supermarket door and into the sex shop in under five seconds, desperately hoping no-one he knew saw him… while at the same time sort of hoping that they would. The straining plastic bags of shopping were completely incongruous in the sparsely-stocked space, and John couldn’t remember ever feeling this awkward in his life. 

There were clean white shelves, clothes racks and more of the plinths around the walls, with some items residing in glass cases. The front window was covered from this side, so there was no chance of anyone seeing through to the interior, allowing John to take something of a relieved breath. At the other side of the space there was a couple standing together at the counter, chatting in low voices with the saleswoman. They didn’t seem at all perturbed that there was another customer in the shop - in fact the sales woman smiled when she caught John’s eye and raised one finger to indicate that she would be right with him. John felt his ears heat - he twisted the bag handles in each hand and turned away, pretending to inspect the merchandise so he didn’t have to hide the uncomfortable expression he knew must be on his face. 

That meant however that he was now looking right at said merchandise. This was not the seedy-sex shop of old that he remembered walking past in his youth. Those places had been dark, grimy, and seemed to be full of cheap plastic novelty items designed more for ridicule than any real attempt at increasing pleasure. This place though…

He was looking at what he assumed were… well, they were butt-plugs, weren’t they? Though John had never experimented with this stuff himself, he did know vaguely what it was all for. These looked like little works of art though - some silicon, some glass, some with beads, some bejeweled. There were even some with little fur tails on their flared bases - very expensive looking fur. John wondered how some of the couples that used this stuff must communicate. How did you tell your partner that you would really love it if they bought you a chinchilla-fur tail, whose smooth glass base was designed expressly to be able to be shoved up your…

“Can I help you?”

John jumped, spinning around, accidentally bashing the young lady in the knee with one of the shopping bags. The other couple was nowhere to be seen. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, wincing as it came out far too loud for the empty store. There was some kind of mellow music playing somewhere, but he still felt like he should be whispering. 

“No harm done,” the woman said, smiling kindly. She was wearing expertly-done make-up - if John was any judge, and her hair was done up in a business-like coil at the back of her head. She was obviously no older than twenty-five, but gave off an air of easy confidence. “Want to put your bags behind the counter while you browse?”

“Oh…” John floundered, looking down at the bags. Putting them behind the counter indicated intent to be here a while, right? And probably intent to buy. He didn’t want to get her hopes up, because he definitely wasn’t going to be buying anything. He was just… in here. 

“Or you can hold on to them,” she went on, as if there hadn’t been an odd pause at all. 

_ Must be used to all this, _ John thought, and he breathed a little easier.  _ Stop being so… boring.  _

“I will actually, thanks,” he said, and she nodded and led the way, taking the bags from him and going around to the other side of the counter. She put them down out of sight, then smiled at him again. 

“First time here?” she asked, kindly. John sighed, but was feeling more comfortable at how normal she was making this all seem. 

“Is it that obvious?” he asked, and she gave a little chuckle. 

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Chances are, literally everyone you know has been in a store like this - or they wish they had been. Now, do you have any idea of what you’re looking for? Something for you, for a partner…”

“Partner,” John blurted, feeling a bit mortified that she thought he was in here just buying something for himself. Did blokes do that?

Eyes wandering around the room quickly and widening at some of the items he saw, he suddenly realised that yes, it seemed they did. Was he really that behind the times? Did all the men he knew have some of these toys stashed away in their rooms?

“Wonderful,” said the woman, pulling John back to the here-and-now. “And may I ask, is your partner cisgender, or trans?” 

John stared at her, knowing the words but still uncomprehending. 

“Male or female?” she tried. 

“Oh. Well… he’s… he’s male.” John felt an illicit thrill shoot through his veins at finally being able to tell someone that. “He’s a man,” he said, voice a little stronger. “What was your other question?”

“Was he assigned male at birth, or is he a trans man? I’m just asking so I know what kinds of items to recommend, if you’d rather not discuss it I can just suggest…”

“No!” said John as she made as if to step away. “No no, please, I need all the help I can get. He’s not trans, he was assigned male at birth. And as for what he likes… I’m not really sure, to be honest.” 

“That’s fine,” the woman said, walking out from behind the counter and gesturing where he had been standing before. “I saw you were looking at the plugs - do you think he would be interested in that? If that’s something you would like to explore, we have a silicon starter kit that might be just the thing.”

“I… uh… I really don’t know…” he said, mind fizzing. They had starter kits for this stuff?

“Does he have any toys of his own?” she asked.

“Yeah, actually. Well I don’t know if they’re toys… but he has a riding crop, and a pair of handcuffs.” 

“Ah, OK. So then maybe something from our bondage range?” She walked him to the opposite wall, where there was a rack of items all involving straps and chains of some kind. “We have cuffs like this, see the fur lining? That’s so whoever is wearing them doesn’t get hurt. Then we have the silicon range if your partner likes bright colours. See the collars, we can customise those for you…”

“Customize?” he asked, starting to feel overwhelmed again. Most of the things on display didn’t make any sense to him - he couldn’t even work out how they were intended to be used. The woman selected a blue leather collar and showed it to him - the word SLUT was picked out on the side in gold lettering. 

“Yes, see? Some people like to have their names on their collars, or the names of their doms, or another word like this one. Would your partner like something like this?”

John thought of that long, pale throat that he adored so much, and swallowed. 

“I… I’m sorry. I just don’t know. I don’t suppose you have starter kits for this stuff as well, do you?” he asked, trying for levity. 

“Actually, we do,” she said happily. She walked back to the counter. “Wait here just a moment,” then disappeared back behind a curtain. She returned after a moment with three large flat boxes. “These are all different kits with a mix of items for couples to experiment with. I’ve got to let you know though, that these aren’t as high quality as if you buy everything separately - but they are good enough to get some idea of what the two of you might want to explore further.”

She laid the three boxes out on the top of the counter as she talked John through their contents, lifting each lid as she went. 

“OK so this one is all silicone, and we have it in a variety of colours - grey, pink, even neon yellow. As you can see you have your ankle and wrist cuffs, a small sized ball-gag, and this set comes with the Satisfier vibrator - you can put the vibrating part either in this multi-purpose egg, the dildo or the prostate massager. The D rings and chains are all sterling steel.”

Though happy that he was obviously talking to the right person for this and that she didn’t seem embarrassed at all, John was taken-aback by hearing all these words in the middle of the afternoon, from a totally regular-looking young woman. He supposed that was something he was going to have to get over though. All of this was regular, all of this was normal - he just wasn’t used to it. He nodded at her to continue. 

“This next one is more functional and multi-purpose. See how each piece has a velcro snap? So again you have your wrist and ankle cuffs, but these are all made of nylon and you can join everything together with the shibari rope. These bars here can be used by either wedging them under your mattress, or by closing them over the top of a door. Then you can restrain your partner easily in different positions in your house, without needing to buy a lot of equipment that takes up space.” 

“Does it come with instructions?” John asked, only half-joking. 

She fished a little booklet out of the side of the box, then winked at him. He laughed, but still couldn’t help glancing back at the door in case someone was going to come in. 

“Alright last one. Classic black leather. You said he already has a riding crop? This is similar, it’s called a flogger, you can use it delicately or with more force depending on what both of you agree on. Cuffs again, fur-lined like those I already showed you, but these have this added piece meaning you can attach the ankle and wrist chains together by using these metal snaps. Then there’s the black leather collar with chain leash, and this set comes with a pair of nipple clamps as well.” She lifted out the plastic box from the corner of the set, showing him two small metal clamps with some kind of screw mechanism, and a thinner metal chain running between them. 

“Any of those speak to you?” 

John looked at her, then from one box to the other. 

_ You don’t have to buy anything,  _ he told himself.  _ You were curious, and it’s not like this lady is going to mind - it’s her job to explain things to customers. You don’t even know if Sherlock would like half of this stuff. Just go home. _

But then he remembered the injured wrists, which were all his fault - all his fault for leaping into something so woefully unprepared and thinking it was easy. He remembered Sherlock’s bored, distracted face when he tried out his regular moves on him in bed. Remembered the trusting, relaxed body as Sherlock slumped against him on the kitchen counter, allowing John to bind his wrists.

He remembered Irene Adler. 

“This one,” he said, indicating the black leather set before he could second-guess himself. “How much is it?” 

She told him, and he winced, but allowed her to wrap it up all the same. 

“Next time, you should bring your partner along with you,” she said, ringing it up and getting his receipt. “And just in case, I’ll put this in the bag too - it’s a booklet we print about safe BDSM practices. You could read it together.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes,” he said, distracted by trying to hold the new plainly-wrapped box and bag along with his returned shopping bags at the same time - preferably so the box was partially out of sight. 

“I’ve found that all of this goes a lot better when there’s clear communication between both people - more fun, too,” she said with a laugh.

“Oh yes, sure,” he agreed, already thinking about how he was going to get this back into the flat without the world’s most observant man catching him at it. He headed for the door.

“Hope it all goes well for both of you,” the woman said, holding the door open for him. 

“Yeah, me too,” said John fervently, then with a quick look each way he headed out, feeling like the eyes of every stranger on the street were on him. 

************************************************

John paused when he got to the front door, wondering again how he could get the box of…  _ the box, _ into the flat and up to his room before Sherlock saw it. Was he being stupid again? Should he just brazen it out and hand it over as soon as he walked in the door?

No, because if he did that, then he was signalling he was one hundred percent OK with using the contents, right? And he wasn’t… or he wasn’t sure if he was. He just couldn’t imagine hurting Sherlock on purpose. That’s what it all really came down to - the things in the box were designed to cause pain, or discomfort, or desperation. He didn’t want Sherlock to feel like that - he wanted Sherlock to feel … special. Cherished. 

Loved. 

He paced, swinging the bags, glancing up at the windows to check he wasn’t being observed.  _ Oscillation on the pavement always means a love affair. _ John snorted. It would probably save him a heap of trouble if Sherlock  _ did  _ happen to glance out of the window… But no, not really. ‘Love’ did not seem to come into their relationship, no matter how much John wished that it would. And he knew, he knew down to the depths of his bones, if it was a choice between this new kind of intimacy with Sherlock, a kind that John had never been remotely interested in, and losing him completely - then John would learn to be interested. 

Maybe not today though, he thought, glancing back up at the window and chewing his lip. Then with some relief, he remembered the case - and ‘no sex during cases’ seemed to be a new rule - or at least it was if the past five days were anything to go by. Feeling a bit better, he opened the door and climbed the stairs, hoping to just slip up the next flight unnoticed. 

He almost got smacked in the arm as the living room door was flung open, the contents of one unfortunate shopping bag scattering across the landing.

“Oh sorry mate, didn’t see you there,” said Greg, grinning at him, then looking contrite when he saw the remaining groceries on the floor and John half-heartedly beginning to lean down to collect them. “Sorry,” Greg said again, then reached for the remaining bags. “Let me help you with those.” 

“No, that’s OK…” John stood up, too quickly it turned out as Greg took that as an invitation.

“I insist,” said Greg, grasping the plastic shopping handles and the string handle of the plain paper bag easily and prising them from his grip. John was left clutching at the air, frantically thinking of which one would be worse: trying to get the bags back, or allowing Greg to take them and playing it cool. He quickly bent down and scooped up fallen apples and a loaf of bread, happy at least that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen…

“Lestrade? Oh.” Greg had disappeared back into the flat with the bags, and Sherlock was hanging out of the front door, staring down at John in confusion. After a beat, he also crouched down and picked up a few items. 

“Bag snapped,” John said, face burning and wishing he could see where Greg had gone.

“Obviously,” Sherlock murmured, standing up, arms full of foodstuffs. He turned away and went back into the flat without a backwards glance. Feeling acutely embarrassed but not at all sure why, John scrambled for the last items and hurried after him. 

Greg was at the kitchen table, unloading the obvious shopping into the fridge and cupboards. The large paper bag was on one of the kitchen seats - John tried hard not to stare directly at it. But was not staring worse? Would Sherlock notice that it was the one thing he wasn’t looking at? How often do eyes move on average, anyway? 

“Did he tell you?” Greg asked over his shoulder with a grin. “He solved the case, clever bugger.”

Surprised, John swivelled to look at Sherlock, who had placed the items he had rescued onto the table then backed away into the living room. John was surprised - when he had left earlier that afternoon, Sherlock had been picking through print-outs of phone records with no clear aim in sight, physically present in the room, but withdrawn in his mind. Apparently in the interim while John had been having a shopping crisis, he had solved the case?

“Brilliant!” John exclaimed, unable to help it and beaming at him. Sherlock looked at him quickly from beneath his curly fringe, and there was a ghost of a smile there before it was wiped away. John’s heart sank a little, but he pushed on. “Go on then, tell me how it was done.”

“It’s not that interesting,” Sherlock said quietly, but there was a loud scoff from the kitchen. 

“Not that interesting? That’s not what you told me a half hour ago! Bouncing off the walls when he was telling me how stupid I am, you know what he’s like,” Greg said, rolling his eyes at John. 

Yes, John  _ did  _ know what Sherlock was like, and it was exactly as Greg had described. It was not as he was right now, eyes wide, staring at Greg as if willing him to shut up with his thoughts alone. John’s heart sank a little further. 

“Go on then, tell me,” he asked again. Sherlock opened his mouth, looking from John to Greg, face pale. He closed his mouth again and shrugged, gaze dropping. 

“Tell me,” John said, voice firm, irrationally irritated at being left in the dark and traces of that irritation no doubt all over his tone and expression. Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he glanced once more at Greg, then back to John. Then he started to talk, but John could have kicked himself when he heard that beloved strong voice reduced by some kind of wavering, unwelcome hesitancy. 

“Well… it was in the phone records. The wife’s lover called her multiple times from the unlisted number as you know, but he slipped up - the day of the murder he called her from a payphone. CCTV shows him there at the time of the call, so Lestrade sent a team to pick him up twenty minutes ago. He already confessed.”

“Seems like it was eating away at him, Donovan said,” Greg interjected, leaving the kitchen to join them and eyeing Sherlock curiously. “We would never have caught that phone call though, if not for you.” He tapped his shoulder against Sherlock’s jovially and John’s breath caught as Sherlock shot him a guilt-ridden look, before his face closed off again and he took a step away from Greg. 

“I follow patterns, Lestrade, and deviations from those patterns are often the most useful of clues. Perhaps you and your officers could give it a try sometime.” It was not the acerbic tone of voice that John knew and loved, but it was at least a little stronger than anything he had said so far.

“Yeah yeah, we’re all useless, I know,” Greg said good-naturedly. “And you need to come down the Yard so we can finish all the paperwork. Why don’t you just ride with me in my car?” 

This was an argument they were all used to, and John almost relaxed until he saw Sherlock heading back into the kitchen, towards the chair…

“Yeah why don’t you just go in his car?” John asked loudly, and both the others looked at him. 

“You know I don’t like riding in other people’s cars,” Sherlock said slowly, the watchful look that John had come to know and loathe creeping over him again. “Too much data.” 

“You already know everything there is to know about me,” Greg said with a laugh. 

“There’s always more,” Sherlock said, voice low again, eyes meeting John’s for a charged moment. 

“Right,” Greg said skeptically, obviously giving it up as a lost cause. “I’m going on ahead to get started. I want to see you there in no less than an hour. Alright?” Sherlock rolled his eyes lightly at him and wafted towards the door with one hand. Greg nodded at them both, and left. 

Sherlock gave John another long look, then moved to fill up the kettle. 

“Well done,” John said, sidling around the table towards the bag and positive that he was being ten kinds of obvious about it. “Really, Sherlock, great work.” 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, still turned towards the kettle. “Though it really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. They would have got it by themselves, eventually.” 

“I don’t know,” John said, stopping by the chair but stuck for what to do next. “You see things so differently to the rest of us - we don’t think the way that you do.” 

Sherlock turned sharply to look at him. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, eyes intense. John was sure it was the first question Sherlock had asked him since the case had begun - maybe even longer. 

“Oh, come on,” John said, smiling despite himself. “You know your way of thinking is nothing like mine, or Greg’s, or the rest of them down there. You’re… special. Unique.”

There was no answering smile, no blush, no rebuttal: just a scan of those eyes, sweeping over John’s face and body like a wave. John tried not to fidget, tried not to think of anything - especially the box on the chair in front of him. After a moment, Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the side, face relaxing. 

“Do you need anything, John?” 

John blinked, a wave of something else - something darker and hotter passing over him at the low sound of Sherlock’s voice.

How did he  _ do  _ that?!

“I… what…”

“Do you need anything?” Sherlock repeated, stepping towards him, expression intent. 

“Don’t… don’t you need to go down to the Yard?” John said, unable to look away as Sherlock took another step forward, gaze never wavering. Sherlock was dressed in one of his tailored charcoal suits, buttons straining on the front of his dark blue shirt, polished shoes making no sound at all on the kitchen floor. John found himself staring at his neck, pale and graceful, delicate collar-bone just showing underneath one of the open buttons…

“There’s some time yet,” Sherlock said, taking another step, voice lowering. “So…” he stopped in front of John, the chair and bag in between them, but he didn’t spare either a second glance. “Before I go... do you need anything?”

John felt like a teenager as heat pooled between his legs, head swimming with possibilities. Never had he had a connection like this with another person - never. He was positive that if Sherlock really put his mind to it, he could  _ talk  _ John into coming in his pants right there and then - and John would absolutely love it. He was also positive, though he didn’t know how, that no matter what he asked Sherlock to do at that moment, Sherlock would do it. It was an almost... disturbing thought.

Maybe they could make use of something in the box…

_ No. _

The thought was like a splash of cold water to the face - and to the crotch. No, this had all the makings of another too-hasty shag, with one or both of them getting hurt by the end of it. He wanted more for Sherlock - more for them. 

“I need you to kiss me,” John said, voice loud and clear, stepping away from the table and reaching towards the detective. The heated intensity in Sherlock’s face wavered, like the haze in the air rising from above a candle. It was almost like he was wearing two expressions at once for a moment. Another scan of the eyes, a furrow appearing and disappearing in between his eyebrows, but then he obligingly stepped forward and into John’s embrace, leaning down to bring their lips together. 

John felt a flush of pleasure at the feel of those soft lips against his, after the past few days of absence. Having Sherlock in the same flat but so obviously uninterested in touching him had been a special kind of torture. He trailed his hands up and down Sherlock’s spine, smiling into the kiss when he felt Sherlock rest his hands lightly on John’s shoulders. 

“I missed you,” he whispered against Sherlock’s mouth in between kisses. He felt Sherlock frown before the man’s tongue darted out in search of John’s - but John pulled back. 

“What?” he asked softly. Sherlock seemed to have an internal argument with himself. 

“I’ve been right here,” he said finally, looking a little lost.

John’s heart gave one enormous thump in his chest - like it was trying to punch him for being such an idiot. 

“I know,” he said, moving closer again and smiling softly. “I just… nevermind…”

They kissed a little longer, and John made sure to keep his hands above Sherlock’s jacket - no matter how much he wanted to feel that smooth skin. They couldn’t go on the way they had been, just leaping from one ill-advised encounter to the next. He had to be purposeful from now on. Sherlock couldn’t get hurt again. 

He had to take care of him. 

Sherlock’s tongue shyly licked at his lips again, the ghost of a squeeze on John’s shoulders, but John held himself still, unwilling to let this go any further just then. A more insistent lick followed his lack of response, and Sherlock somehow pressed himself even closer, employing some kind of slow, undulating movement against John’s body with his own. John gasped at the light touch of thigh to pelvis, and felt his skin heat as his tongue connected with Sherlock’s, who made the lightest of humming noises…

John closed his mouth reluctantly, bringing his hands back to hold Sherlock firmly by the upper arms, pecking Sherlock’s lips a couple more times before finally breaking the kiss. Sherlock looked down at the hand on his arm, bewildered, letting his own hands fall back down to his sides.

“You really do need to get down to the Yard,” John reminded him, taking a half step back but rubbing Sherlock’s arms soothingly to show him it was alright. “And that kiss - that was just what I needed. Thank you.”

Sherlock stared at him.

“Go on - I’ve got some things I need to do this evening anyway,” John said, rubbing the arms beneath his hands once more before letting go. “And you know Greg and the rest can’t go home until all the paperwork is finished, right?”

Another second of staring, but then Sherlock slowly nodded. John smiled at him in encouragement, but again, it was not returned. 

Where was his expressive, stroppy detective? And how was he going to get him back?

His eyes drifted to the bag on the chair again as Sherlock left the kitchen to get his coat, before he shook himself and went out into the living room. It would do no good to call attention to it now and ruin the surprise - plus he wanted to have time to get properly prepared. 

No more improvising. 

Sherlock paused once more by the front door as he put on his scarf, looking back at John. He still seemed confused, and John wondered if he were imagining a flicker of something like hurt in the lines around his eyes as well. 

“Go on, have fun tormenting everyone at the Yard,” John said, hoping that Sherlock really would go off and enjoy himself, and shake off this stilted tension that he was carrying around. “Try not to make anyone cry this time,” he added as Sherlock went out through the door. Closing it, John waited until he heard Sherlock go down the stairs - slower than usual - then out through the front door. Then John dashed back to the kitchen, grabbed the bag and headed up the stairs to his own room, closing that door and opening his wardrobe, intent on throwing the whole thing inside and slamming it shut to keep it out of sight…

But what good would that do? He would be just as unprepared as he was now, just with a slightly lighter wallet. 

He walked over to his bed and sat down resolutely, pulling the box out of the bag. Something else fell out - a thin paper booklet, with the title,  _ ‘Safe, Sane, Consensual - a Beginner’s Guide to BDSM.’ _ He vaguely remembered then that the woman in the shop had said she was including it with his purchase. Feeling a bit like a naughty schoolkid, John lifted up the book on his nightstand - a thick fantasy novel full of magic and battles and heroes - and set the booklet underneath it, intent on reading it a little later. 

He opened the box, pulse fluttering slightly as he looked over the contents. Each item was separately packaged and it was going to take him a while to unwrap and open it all - and then he wanted to dispose of all the plastic and the box itself before Sherlock came home. As he gingerly unwrapped each piece, he held it carefully in his hands for a moment, trying to imagine using it. The cuffs first - the ones for the wrists seemed reasonable, and they weren’t much of a step from what they had already done. For the ankles though… that needed more thought. At least these cuffs were literally designed for this purpose, and the woman had told him that they wouldn’t hurt Sherlock. 

The flogger was next - made of thin strands of leather intricately woven together, there were at least twenty in what looked like a tassel, coming together at the other end to make the handle. John trailed it experimentally on his thigh, feeling it even through his trousers. Now, this might be something he might enjoy. He had played with feathers and ice cubes with a couple of young ladies before, trailing them up and down their skin, and this seemed similar. But… it wasn’t meant to just be trailed, was it? This was… this was for hitting people. 

Taking a breath, John raised the flogger a foot above his thigh, then brought it down with moderate force. 

_ Ouch! _

It wasn’t bad, but even though he did it to himself, he was surprised. But... it was OK. It hurt, but it was a sharp sting - there and then gone. It would be worse on bare skin though.

He tried to think of what position he would have to be in with a lover in order to use this - an obvious one sprung to mind - and his cock made a spirited attempt to spring as well. Fucking someone from behind, them on their hands and knees, flogger in his hand, he would trail it up and down their back to let them know it was coming, and then…

Grinding the heel of his hand against his cock through his trousers, John willed himself to calm down - because even in that fantasy, it wasn’t Sherlock. He wasn’t even picturing a man - it was definitely the soft curves of a woman. He still didn’t know if he wanted to have sex with Sherlock like that, or if Sherlock wanted to either. The two times they had shagged had been rather spectacular because John had been able to let go, but he was pretty sure already that if they ever tried penetration, he would be a tense ball of anxiety from start to finish. Even his cock agreed, erection beginning to subside as he shifted in place on the bed. 

The collar was next. It was thicker leather than everything else, plain black but still fur-lined. There was a buckle at the back with options for making it tighter or looser, and a D-ring on the front with a leash attached. The leash was a sturdy metal chain around two feet long, ending in a leather loop for a handle. John looked at it dubiously. He couldn’t even fathom putting this on someone - on anyone. Putting it on Sherlock? He could easily picture the man, and just as easily picture that long delicious neck that John loved so much, but… a collar? And what would John do with the chain? He knew that people literally led their lovers around with these things, but trying to imagine himself in that situation was impossible. 

But… Sherlock  _ liked  _ this stuff. He had a riding crop, he had handcuffs. He’d had a relationship with a genuine dominatrix, who more than likely  _ had  _ led him around on a leash. She’d smacked him in the face with her whip, hard enough to leave a nasty mark, and yet Sherlock had still been besotted with her. Hell, she’d even  _ drugged  _ him, and he had been OK with that as well. 

Setting the collar aside for further consideration, John looked at the last item - the nipple clamps. He messed with the screw mechanism until he had it figured out, and gave the thin chain an experimental tug. This whole thing looked a bit medieval to him, but he supposed that might be part of the thrill - the mental suggestion that this was something that could be used in torture. Having seen plenty of actual torture during his tour in Afghanistan, John was more than ready to give the whole thing a miss. 

_ But... Sherlock liked this stuff.  _

At least the clamps had the advantage of being small. He could have them in his pocket, ready to pull out and use when the occasion called for it. The rest of the items needed literal planning - how do you nonchalantly bring out a pair of cuffs, or a flogger, or a collar? Stash them in the living room filing cabinets and hope nobody notices?

He remembered then, that Sherlock kept his handcuffs in their cutlery drawer, where anyone could find them (and frequently did), and didn’t seem to care one jot. It was quite possible that once Sherlock learned of the existence of these new things, that they would end up displayed on the mantel alongside the skull. 

John just needed to calm down, make a plan, and go for it. Sherlock would appreciate the effort he was going to, and see that they could be properly compatible. Once they sorted out their sex life, Sherlock would be happier, John just knew it. His smile and his laugh would come back once he saw how much John cared about him. 

John’s Sherlock would come back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you're thinking eveyone! Love it? Hate it? Drop those comments and I'll get back to you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the tags before reading.

Sherlock woke up with a start, pulse racing. He blinked blearily around the room, trying to identify the source of his instinctive upset, but then noticed the light coming in through the curtains and heard the chink of cutlery against china from the kitchen - another late morning, then. He tried to will his heart to stop thumping so hard by placing both hands over it and bringing his knees towards his chest, but only after the sounds in the kitchen died away did it get the message. 

Sneaking a hand out from under the covers and grabbing his phone from his bedside table, he pulled it back into the dark with him, lowering the brightness on the display. 10:38am. He had got back to the flat around one, meaning that once again he had slept for over eight hours. Sleeping for so long and so deeply was something he hadn’t done in years, and he supposed he might be more disturbed by the change if he wasn’t still so damn tired all the time these days. 

And that was all wrong, wasn't it? Everyone was always telling him he needed to get more sleep than he did, that his sleeping patterns weren’t normal, and now here he was getting more than the recommended amount, yet feeling stretched as thin as a piece of chewed-up gum. 

He had considered coming home straight after completing the paperwork for Lestrade at the Yard the previous evening, but the humiliation from the earlier disastrous interlude with John had still been skulking around in his stomach - thick, bitter and oily. After a week of distance, John had finally seemed amenable to some kind of physical intimacy… or at least, that’s what Sherlock had deduced by his distracted body language. John had then stunned Sherlock into silence when he had asked for a kiss of all things, because Sherlock had been absolutely positive that they were never going to kiss again. John had even said so… hadn’t he? 

Not wanting to lose the opportunity, Sherlock had dived in to the offered kiss with all the remaining energy he had. While they were kissing, he had felt so relieved at the touch of John’s lips that he thought he might faint, and had even gone so far as to put his hands on John in order to stay upright: but therein lay his mistake. John had tolerated his touch well enough for a few minutes, but then Sherlock had realized that John wasn’t going to put his hands under his jacket, or stroke his tongue against Sherlock’s, not even when Sherlock gave him the chance. After the joy of kissing him again after all these days of distance started to diminish, Sherlock had panicked at the thought that John didn’t want him at all anymore and had pushed the point - and that’s when John had stopped the kiss completely, physically removed Sherlock from his person, and stepped away. 

Sherlock’s heart had stopped. He literally couldn’t feel it beating anymore, couldn’t feel his limbs moving, couldn’t understand what John was saying, just that once again everything equalled,  _ ‘No.’ _ He had mechanically gotten ready to leave the flat, hoping with every cell in his body that John would call him back, tell him it was alright, he was forgiven for whatever it was he had done wrong… but he didn’t. John had told him to go. 

He had sleep-walked through the reports with Lestrade, left the Yard with a mumbled agreement to Lestrade’s worried,  _ ‘Take care, yeah?’ _ , and ended up sitting on a park bench close to the Yard for four hours: just sitting and freezing and trying to make sense of what had been going on for the previous week, and how everything had gone so wrong. 

A week ago, John Watson had kissed him, and they had ended up in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock remembered how he had lay there for hours after John had left, feeling sick and unhappy but unsure why. The orgasm he had had with John had been just as unpleasant as he remembered them being, but it was done and over with relatively quickly, so he should have been able to get over it, shouldn’t he? Still, he hadn’t been able to rouse himself from the swift, dark depression that had swallowed him from the moment John had left the flat, not for several hours. It had only been the sounds of Mrs. Hudson pottering around, a mere door away, that had gotten through to his brain and reminded him that he really didn’t want her to see him in such a state. Removing the shirt from his wrists with numb fingers had taken some brain power, and thinking his way through the minor problem seemed to shake the cobwebs in his mind loose and get him functioning again. He had then staggered into the bathroom and taken a long shower, scrubbing his skin almost raw in his drive to get all the mess of sex from off of him. He knew it was pointless - if he and John were going to be doing this now, he would have to get used to getting… messy… but he hadn’t been able to move his body to move out from under the scalding spray of water until the tank was empty and the water ran cold. 

He had just managed to get dressed and start thinking about a long-overdue experiment, when John had come home. Sherlock had heard him on the stairs, core immediately clenching, a bout of nerves so strong settling in his gut that he had felt nauseated once again despite not having eaten all day.

_ This is John, _ he kept telling himself as the man in question came in and took off his jacket.  _ John, the man you love, your best friend, the one that likes you _ … but his transport continued to betray him as his skin prickled and his heart rate spiked. Because yes, John liked him, wanted him even, had proven it so - but then John had tied him up. 

_ John had tied him up. _

Sherlock understood in part the thing that was going on in his brain to make thinking so difficult: This was John, John was good, he trusted John… and John had tied him up. The only people who tied him up were bad - people who didn’t care about him or what he wanted at all, people who wanted his body but never him ( _ never _ him), people who wanted to hurt him on purpose, or even worse, just hurt him by accident and not even notice. The two diametrically opposed ideas were trying to exist in his head at the same time, and Sherlock was struggling to keep the wall between the two viewpoints thick and robust enough to stop himself from losing it completely. 

_ John is good, trust John, follow John - John tied you up, he will again, get away, get away, GET AWAY… _

John had seemed jittery that night, but happy. There had obviously been something on his mind, and Sherlock had tried to puzzle out exactly what it was. There must have been something after all, and if Sherlock was going to keep John around then he would need to spend more energy on working these things out and acting on them. He was bound to John, now - bound to John and whatever path the doctor decided to take.

Water dripping down his hair and tickling his skin, he had thought on it for a few moments until he noticed John’s eyes tracking down the curves of Sherlock's ear, his face, his neck and shoulders… John had wanted him, but had been holding back.

_ Why? _ Was he not liking what he saw? Was he changing his mind?

He had done another sweep with his eyes, mentally pouncing on every detail he observed but arrived at the same conclusion: John wanted him. He just needed some encouragement, needed Sherlock to initiate, so John could get what he needed. 

Steeling himself, Sherlock had also reminded himself sternly that this was not a surprise, this need from John - they had already been together once and John had seemed to leave at least partially satisfied, so it was perfectly reasonable for him to expect a repeat performance. Normal people loved sex after all, and finding a willing partner to enjoy it with was something they strove for. If John ever found out just how very abnormal Sherlock was, then…

So, Sherlock had calmed his mind and gone after John’s cock with all the determination he used when he went after a criminal: logically, efficiently, and with a hint of a surprise…

_ ‘Sherlock, stop.’ _

John’s voice had travelled in through Sherlock’s ear canals and along the nerves to his brain, hijacking his body and leaving him gasping. 

_ ‘Up.’ _

He had been jumping up onto the table before he even knew what was happening - but in the brief moment of lucidity he had once he got there, he had realised John had wanted him up there so he could kiss him. Not wanting him to change his mind, Sherlock had obliged, but at the feel of John’s erection pressed against his leg he had started feeling dizzy. 

Again, it was going to happen again - John was going to want them to  _ get off together _ and was going to  _ expect  _ Sherlock to like it  _ and if he didn’t go along with it  _ then John was going to _ LEAVE and if John left because of this, this thing that was so STUPID, this THING that had ruined every attempt Sherlock had made to be normal then… _

Sherlock had kissed John then as if he could convince him to stay with him with the movement of his lips alone.

_ ‘No.’ _

Spiralling thoughts, erratic breathing, quivering muscles - all had responded to John’s command, John’s rebuttal, John’s displeasure. Sherlock had been certain for a moment that he was going to shrivel up right then and there; deflate like a popped balloon in John Watson’s arms, until there was no trace of him left at all. 

He had stopped trying to kiss John as if the skin of the doctor’s mouth  _ burned, _ and while in the midst of his panic his brain had filed it away under,  _ ‘Not Good’, _ never expecting to have the opportunity to do it again. He must have been doing something wrong, or at least not well enough, and John had told him  _ ‘No’, _ and he was stepping away and  _ NO is he going to… he can’t really be leaving… but… _

When John had stooped to shed his jumper and pick the belt up from the floor… it was like Sherlock stepped backwards. His body remained exactly where it was, but he took a big step back and just… left it there. 

So John was going to hit him. It was more of a surprise than it should have been. Yes, John was a good person ( _ but he wants to hit me he’s wrapping the belt up he’s going to HIT ME… _ ), but there was obviously something so fundamentally broken about Sherlock that as soon as he opened himself up to intimacy, he brought this out in people. Whatever it was, that dark and ugly thing, they saw it and they recognised it and they reacted accordingly. Even Sherlock had, when he was younger: he had seen it and he had tried to reach in and kill the thing with powders and potions and self-flagellation. It was long since passed that he had had the energy to keep on trying - so now John was going to try for him. 

_ OK. _

John’s arms had been around him then and he hadn’t been able to work out what was going on - he was back in that comfortable sitting room in his head, watching the scene unfold through rain-splattered windows - but then John was slipping Sherlock’s numb hand into the loop of the belt and Sherlock had finally understood. 

_ ‘I’m going to take care of you.’ _

A wave of exhaustion too strong to fight had swept over Sherlock at those words, and he had given his body over to John. He hadn’t even been able to hold his own head up, so strong was the feeling. John could do whatever he wanted. John was going to take care of him. Everything was fine. 

_ Follow John.  _

The only time that conscious thought had bled through the chaos of the next half hour was when he had felt something different - the creak of the table, the rhythmic and unpleasant slick  _ squelch _ of wet skin against skin had paused - and when he had realized that John’s cock was positioned against his entrance, Sherlock had blacked out completely. The storm in his head had roared until no other noise could make it through, and he had drawn the curtains closed in his mind, unwilling to look outside, staying in by the fire where it was safe.

Once it was all over, and the screaming alarms from other far-off rooms in his head had died down, John had told him to sit up. Doing so was one of the hardest things that Sherlock could remember doing - he had to command each muscle, each joint, to move one by one. 

John had been alarmed and upset by the blood on Sherlock’s mouth, the injured skin on Sherlock’s wrists. He had apologized, made some other comments. It had all been ...meaningless. Sherlock remembered that all he had been able to do at that moment was just  _ look. _ Look at John, wait for him to do something. Do something to have this all make sense, do something to let Sherlock know what he was supposed to do next. Sherlock had been propelled forward again into his body, left the sitting room in his mind and was back as the pilot of the transport, but it had been like he didn’t quite fit correctly in the space. The angles were all wrong - he was dense where he should be light, empty where he should be full... He had felt as strange and adrift as during the day, as he had lain bound in his bed alone for hour after hour after hour...

He’d had a sudden vision then - a fragile, impossible thing, there for a second and gone almost immediately - but in this vision, John had stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Sherlock, allowed Sherlock to wrap his hands around him, and they had just rested their heads together and breathed. Not kissed, kissing wasn’t allowed anymore - but they had breathed the same air, pulses beating in time against joined skin, turned and gone together into the bedroom so that they could…

But then John, real John, had left, going into the shower, obviously as disturbed at being covered in Sherlock’s release as Sherlock had been that morning. Sherlock couldn’t blame him for that - it was disgusting, after all. 

That night had been the start of the long sleeps. 

A case had started, vaguely interesting, but not enough to drive the confusion and anxiety completely from his mind. His first thought upon entering the florist shop to view the body had been about how he had never received flowers from anyone - and the ache of that thought was almost perfectly balanced with the self-berating onslaught that he should ever be concerned with such a thing. He had acted out the part of Sherlock Holmes, even managed to interact with John vaguely normally, until he had found himself looking up at John’s face from below and unable to force his body up into a standing position. 

_ ‘Up,’ _ John had said, and the tension in the joints had released, the muscles had worked, and the flood of endorphins at the pleased squeeze of John’s hands had left Sherlock reeling. 

What was  _ wrong  _ with him?

It was now eleven in the morning, so John would probably have gone out to work. Sherlock forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom, turning on the cold tap and splashing handfuls of freezing water over his face in an effort to wake up. He glanced up at the mirror, and saw what he had been seeing all week - someone almost unrecognizable. 

Sherlock Holmes was an arrogant, strong-willed, independent genius. He took what he wanted from people, disregarded their feelings, but wow-ed and amazed them even as stomped all over their self-esteem. He wore his intelligence as both shield and weapon, cut strips off people with his words alone, and was an intimidating physical figure of both height and strength. 

But who was this in the mirror?

This person was…  _ weak. _ It shone through his skin like it was made of paper. Weak and afraid and unsure of his place in the world. This person was vaguely helpful to the police, but missed vital evidence that slowed things down to a crawl. This person was worried about saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing,  _ being  _ the wrong thing. And this person was only good for one thing, especially in a relationship. Only good at one thing - and John, it seemed, had decided he didn’t even want that. 

Sherlock and this person in the mirror had waited - Sherlock somewhere in the background shouting about experiments, and research, and  _ life  _ \- waited and waited for John to come, in the mornings and the evenings when they were in the same space. He had tried leaving his bedroom door open, tried approaching John, tried to let John approach him - but John had steadfastly remained away. It had been like a barrier had sprung up, separating them, and as soon as Sherlock got too close, John would move away. They had danced their way around the apartment, a dance of empty spaces, until Sherlock had decided he would have to do his waiting in the bedroom or else risk smashing the furniture to pieces. 

He had even found himself a couple of times waiting for John when he knew he wasn’t coming home yet - knew it, logically, but still with an idea that he should wait, just in case. He would come-to like waking from a coma, sitting in his room and staring at the open door, daydreaming about what might happen when John came back. He would pull Sherlock up from the floor. He would run his hands through Sherlock’s hair, gently. He would take Sherlock into the bathroom and help him get clean, help his skin fit back on his skeleton as it had done before. He would help Sherlock feel  _ right  _ again.

But, day by day, John didn’t come. Sherlock wondered if it were because of the case, and that sudden wondering had propelled him into actually  _ using  _ that vast intelligence instead of sitting on it and solving the damned thing. He had called Lestrade over at once, babbling out his conclusions almost faster than his tongue could keep up, wanting him to leave quickly so that when John came back Sherlock could… could…

And then John had come back, and Sherlock had been embarrassed, ( _ embarrassed! _ ) to tell him his deductions the way he had in the past. John had seen a part of what he was really like after all - there was no point anymore in trying to be Sherlock Holmes, when he was failing so very badly at it. 

But even that hadn’t helped, that attempt at being self-effacing. John had been annoyed, and Sherlock had struggled once again to know what to do. Nothing seemed right, nothing seemed enough. He hadn’t known how to be, how to act. Be Sherlock Holmes, or be this person, the one in the mirror? Be the vessel for John’s pleasure, or be his barely-tolerated flatmate? 

Sherlock shook his head abruptly, sending water droplets splashing across the mirror, fracturing the image. That wasn’t him, but it  _ was  _ him. He was desperately unhappy with what had been happening and would continue to happen, but elated to be closer and more important to John. He was intelligent and strong and independent, but also  _ stupid  _ and  _ weak  _ and  _ needy. _ He wanted kisses, and cuddling, and to give John pleasure, but he also wanted to scream at being touched, and be alone, and never have an orgasm again. 

The truly awful thing was, that as a highly intelligent person, Sherlock could see that this was all going to come to a head whether he wanted it to or not. The likelihood of him being able to fool John in the long-term was absolutely zero, and the likelihood of John leaving him with either pity or derision were merely absolute. It all came back down to just how long Sherlock could prolong things before that happened.

Grabbing his robe from the bathroom door, Sherlock headed to the kitchen in search of a distraction. He didn’t want to find himself back on his bedroom floor again - he needed to stop waiting for what wasn’t going to happen. John had merely discovered that he and Sherlock could relieve some of his tension, that was all - this was no grand love affair. It was more of an exchange of services. Sherlock could provide sexual pleasure, and in return John would stay and fill the gaps in Sherlock’s life: gaps down which without John, Sherlock would plummet. If he could just think of things that way, put himself back in the mindset he had used with his  _ other clients _ in the past, then he might be able to keep things going a good while longer. 

Sherlock pulled out some of his glass equipment and chemicals - there was a reaction he had been wanting to try out, and now was as good a time as any. After briefly consulting a notebook, he measured out each component and set his bunsen-burner to a medium flame. Keeping his hands out of the way of the flame, he put a small sample of the liquid into a test tube and wafted it through the heat a couple of times - there, was that a colour change? He would have to repeat it with a larger amount to make properly sure. 

While measuring, pouring and setting up armatures to hold various vessels, he couldn’t help but continue thinking about how his relationships always seemed to turn out this way. Sherlock was afraid even to get a burn from a bunsen-burner - was that why those who enjoyed giving pain seemed to be attracted to him? Because they knew he was a coward? His old boyfriends (this was too generous a term), old clients, Moriarty, The Woman, and now John - some obviously liked meting out physical pain before they met him, but did they all? Was it really true, that it was something about him that made people act this way, that brought it out in them?

Again, the two sides of his personality were at war. One was logical, shouting that no, there was no beast in the dark of his soul that people set out to destroy - he was just an easy target because he didn’t fight back. The other was nodding quietly, because yes, of course there was something fundamentally wrong with him. Why else would he recoil from what everyone else sought, why else would he hate what everyone else loved? He didn’t want to be unique in this way. Other areas of life, yes, he enjoyed being separate and distinct from the idiots around him. This though… this hurt. It hurt, and it hurt, and it went on hurting. 

He remembered the way Irene Adler had tried to seduce him. _ ‘I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice.’ _ He had stared at her, unable to comprehend how that was supposed to be in any way enticing, but at the same time noting John’s annoyed yet aroused expression from the sidelines. Irene had  _ legions  _ of clients just waiting for her to torture them - and there Sherlock had been, wondering how someone who seemed just as intelligent and different as himself had managed to find her place so successfully in the world of intimacy, when he was as lost as he had ever been.  _ ‘I’ve never begged for mercy in my life,’ _ he had said, and it had been true - no matter what past partners had done, no matter how they had ignored his cries and wounds and upset - he had never begged. 

What would be the point?

Barely watching the experiment by that point, Sherlock tried to reread his old notes from his notebook, but the page was blurry. Everything was blurry, lately. 

He remembered one of his old dealers, one who he had had an  _ agreement  _ with before the man had made a stupid mistake and gotten himself killed… His name was Jacob, and he had quickly realized that Sherlock wouldn’t beg: and loved it. Sherlock was a favorite of his, because he acted and dressed differently to the other junkies. Even back then he spoke well, and he wore suits and crisp shirts - not the ‘addict costume’ he sometimes wore these days when he was undercover. Addicts didn’t have a dress code. One encounter with Jacob stood out very clearly in his mind. Jacob had been fucking Sherlock’s mouth, knees bumping his shoulders, Sherlock’s head hitting the mouldy plaster wall behind him. That hadn’t been anything unusual - most of the time it was a five minute ordeal and then Jacob would slide a baggie into his jacket pocket and Sherlock would leave. This time though, another junkie, dirty and sick, had waltzed into the room without knocking, desperate to find Jacob and get a fix. Jacob had been furious at the interruption, releasing Sherlock and starting to beat the other man with hands, then feet, then had reached for a concrete breeze-block… and Sherlock had stopped him. He had knocked the block from his grip and forced Jacob’s hands behind his back, shouting at the broken thing on the floor to run. It had only managed a crawl, and Jacob had spit and cursed in Sherlock’s hold the entire time it took for the injured man to get out of the room and away to safety. 

Jacob’s anger had been ferocious. He had turned on Sherlock like a feral animal, biting and scratching and kicking, and Sherlock had let him. He still needed the drugs, and was convinced that Jacob wouldn’t kill him like he had been going to kill the unknown visitor. Eventually they had ended up in the same position as before, but this time Sherlock had tears and snot streaming down his face as Jacob yanked at his hair as he thrust down his throat at an unforgiving pace. Jacob had seemed to have an epiphany then, grabbing Sherlock’s necktie and pulling it up to strangle him as he came. He had left Sherlock coughing and choking on the floor, thrown the baggie at him on his way out of the door like one would throw trash on top of other trash.

Sherlock had used to love neckties - loved the lux finish of them, their subtle shades, their way of allowing him to show a hint of personality without drawing too much unwanted attention.

He had never worn one again. 

After that visit, Jacob had continued to punish Sherlock for that incident by making him wear a collar while they fucked - a chain clipped around his neck, as if he were a dog. He was displeased that the neckties had mysteriously disappeared, so Sherlock knew that he had brought this upon himself. If Jacob were busy when Sherlock arrived, he would make him sit in a corner wearing the chain until he was ready, often doing lines of coke with his friends and making sure that Sherlock could see. Sometimes he made Sherlock wait like that even if he weren’t busy - especially if Sherlock was very obviously feeling the cravings and visibly desperate. 

Even now, all these years later and living life clean, Sherlock sometimes felt the ghost of that chain around his neck. His skin was very sensitive, and he wondered if somehow it had kept the memory of the chain embedded in the cells themselves. He had even taken to turning up his coat collar at every opportunity in order to protect his neck - as if Jacob were going to rise from his watery grave in the river Thames and loop the chain around him like a cowboy would lasso a slow and sickly steer. Thankfully people now just accepted that Sherlock Holmes kept his collar turned up - all part of the image, of the mystique.

Apparently, he did it to look cool. 

“Sherlock, what the  _ hell _ …"

John was suddenly there, striding purposefully into the kitchen towards him, face screwed up in annoyance, and Sherlock almost fell off his stool in order to put some distance between them. John ignored his stumbling, insead grabbing a towel and throwing at the bubbling, smoking mess that was developing around the bunsen burner on the table. 

“Turn that damn thing off, will you?” John said, wincing as the fire alarm started to go off. Sherlock jumped up, wrapping his hands in his robe sleeves and quickly cutting off the gas supply. Almost immediately, the stuff foaming and spitting out of the hot glass beaker started to calm, and stopped dripping down the sides where it was now being soaked up in the kitchen towel. “Open the windows!” John shouted over the alarm, wafting his arms around his head and going for the broom handle they always used to turn the alarm off. Sherlock hurried to comply, opening first the back kitchen window and then into the living room to open those as well, berating his own lack of focus the whole way. Not only had he ruined his experiment and made a huge mess, but John had come back to the flat without him even noticing. How far must he have been lost down the dark alleys of memories past in order for that to happen?

“Jesus Christ,” John said with gusto as he turned off the beeping alarm. “Sherlock, we’ve  _ talked  _ about this - if you’re going to do experiments at home, you’ve got to choose something that won’t destroy the furniture!”

Sherlock nodded quickly, hard knot of anxiety in his throat making speech impossible. 

“Honestly,” John went on with a sigh, tossing the soaked towel gingerly into the sink, “Cleaning up after you was not what I imagined doing with my Saturday.” 

Saturday?

It was  _ Saturday  _ already?

Sherlock nodded again, hanging back in the living room as John continued the grumble, moving glassware into the sink with the oven mitts. 

“Is this stuff going to react with water?” 

Sherlock stared. 

“Sherlock? Can I turn on the taps, or not?” 

_ Oh. _

“No… I mean, yes. Taps are fine. You can turn them on,” he said, forcing the knot in his throat away through sheer willpower. 

Once the items were rinsed to John’s satisfaction, John sighed, dragging his hands through his hair. He came to stand in the kitchen doorway, leaned against it, regarding Sherlock with a grumpy little smile. 

“I’d ask what you’ve been doing all afternoon, but I think we know the answer to that,” John said, face starting to relax even more. Sherlock was breathing easier the more it did. “You busy now, or do you want to try setting the living room on fire next?”

Sherlock blushed hotly. 

“No, not busy… but…” He suddenly remembered that he had agreed to meet Molly in the early evening to have a look at a corpse that had come in. She said the man had had Proteus Syndrome, and the rarity of that had been enough to filter through Sherlock’s current layers of conflicting realities in order to entice him to plan to go to Bart’s. 

“But?” John prodded.

“I’m meeting Molly,” he confessed, feeling guilty and having no idea why. “Later,” he added. 

“Oh good!” John said, and the last of the annoyance appeared to be gone. “I’m glad you’re going to get out and do something fun.” 

So, John still wanted him to go away. The knot in his throat was back, but he nodded in acceptance and started to move off towards his bedroom to change. 

“Hey, wait a second,” John said, sounding bemused. Sherlock stopped, and John came closer. “I thought you said you were going later?” 

“Yes?” Sherlock said, unsure of what John was really asking. 

“So, you’ve got time to kiss me again, yes?”

Sherlock couldn’t help it: couldn’t control his face. He frowned. This… this just seemed cruel, now. This wasn’t the John that he knew. He could accept John setting boundaries, letting Sherlock know what he wanted, letting him know and giving a consequence if he did something wrong - but this? This was baiting, and Sherlock  _ hated  _ it. One of his fuck buddies in university had loved to play this game - to dangle something in front of Sherlock that he knew he wanted, and then take it away again. Sherlock had thought John better than that. 

“Or not,” John said, smile faltering. “I just thought… we could spend some time together, before you go. I thought I’d see you after the Yard last night, but then it just got too late…” he trailed off, giving Sherlock a hopeful look. 

“I…” Sherlock faltered, unwilling and unable to explain his need to sit in the dark of the night to try and process the past week, instead of coming home. “I… had something to do,” he said instead. 

“Sure,” John said quickly, nodding and stepping closer. “It’s fine, I understand. And I wasn’t waiting up because.... Well. I know, we aren’t like that. And that’s fine too,” he added in a rush, face tinged a bit pink. 

_ We aren’t like that? _

_ Like what? _

“I just…” John went on, appearing to find some courage from somewhere, “I just want you to know that I’m happy. I’m happy that this is finally happening between us. And… and you don’t need to worry, about asking for what you want. Because I want you to be happy too, right?”

Sherlock nodded again because it was obvious he should, even as he fought down an urge to laugh, darkly. Ask for what he wanted? He’d rather drink whatever had been bubbling out of the beaker in the kitchen than subject John Watson to that. 

“So… I got you something,” John said, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet and exerting a strange kind of nervous energy. “I was going to try and be all cool about it, but I know you’d see right through that, so I left it upstairs. Wait here?” 

Once more Sherlock nodded, and with a quick tight smile John disappeared out into the hall. 

_ John got him something? _

_ John got him… a present? _

Sherlock sat back against the window ledge, legs wobbling, vaguely wondering about when he last ate anything while picturing the possibilities and trying to fight down a wave of hope. 

A  _ present. _ Presents meant intimacy, of a different kind than he and John were currently sharing. Of a kind that Sherlock had always wanted, had tried to stop wanting. Presents were bought for those you cared for, usually on special days. This wasn’t a special day, this was just a regular Saturday, and yet John had bought him a present… 

Something to use on cases? No, it was deemed rude for presents to be practical. Something edible, like… maybe not chocolates. Chocolates were too romantic, and they weren’t ever going to be romantic. 

_ Flowers are romantic too. _

He stood up abruptly, shaking his head, unwilling to even picture such an impossible thing. No, if anything John might have bought him a new notebook, or piece of lab equipment, or…

“Back,” John said while walking back into the room. His face was even more red now, contrasting badly with the green and brown of his plaid shirt. He had both hands behind his back. 

Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and John took a deep breath and slowly brought his hands around to show what was in them. 

For a second, Sherlock had no idea what he was looking at. There was what looked to be a necklace in John’s right hand, and something black and metal and indistinct in his left. Then something clicked in the back of his mind and the images resolved themselves. 

_ Cuffs. _

Leather cuffs, with a short chain in between them. 

The hope that had been growing flared out like a little supernova and died, taking a lot of his shock with it. He couldn’t even call himself an idiot - all of that was all gone already, burnt out and crumbled to ash.

Of course John had bought cuffs. He had restrained Sherlock twice already and been displeased when Sherlock touched him - these would make sure that didn’t happen again. At least they looked more comfortable than the metal ones Sherlock had been subjected to in the past. 

At least they weren’t a collar. 

The other item that looked like a necklace… that was new, but he vaguely knew what it was for. Little metal clips, like jaws, that were used on a person’s nipples to cause pain during sex. 

John wanted to hurt him?

Sherlock looked up at John’s face, trying to assess the truth of that statement. John looked five kinds of nervous but was holding his ground - perhaps embarrassed to be revealing his kink, but still determined to do so. But John had been upset about Sherlock’s bloody lip and chafed skin - was that why he had bought proper cuffs? They looked to even have fur on the inside for protection. 

John was  _ good. _ John wanted to take care of him. John didn’t want to hurt him… but then why the clips?

John must have noticed how Sherlock’s eyes kept straying back to them, as he asked, “Have you tried these before?” He let one of the clips fall from his hand, dangling on the end of the chain. 

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Do you want to try?” John asked. “Or… is it better not to ask? Sorry, I’m a bit pants at this,” he said with a little self-deprecating laugh. 

_ Do you want to try? _

The obvious answer to that was a loud  _ NO, _ but it was never that simple, was it? What were the consequences of saying no? Did it mean John withdrew just for today, or was it going to be another week of absence? Did it mean that John would start losing interest in Sherlock as a sexual partner, or that he would suggest another item, even more extreme instead?

Maybe they wouldn’t hurt that much, he thought, eyeing the little clips with some trepidation. On impulse, he reached out for them, a little surprised when John dropped them into his hand. With a glance at John’s face which was looking a lot happier, he inspected the… toy. Each clip had a slip of rubber over the teeth, so at least it would only be pressure rather than a sharp pain. There was a screw on each side to make them open and close, and the chain held them together. 

Compared to things that had happened to him during cases, the level of pain that these things would cause would probably be minimal. Even compared to the sting of the hypodermic, these clips probably paled in comparison. 

He looked at John again, who was now looking hopeful though he was trying to hide it. This was important to him, then. It was important that Sherlock said yes. 

“Yes,” he said, handing the clips back. 

“Alright!” John said, grinning. “And these?” he asked, waving the cuffs around. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said again, as if there were any other answer. 

“OK,” said John happily, but then started looking a bit awkward. “Um… now?” 

Sherlock nodded, then glanced around the room, eyes landing on John’s armchair. He didn’t want to have any of their activities happening in his bed again if he could help it. At least then his bed could remain a haven. He walked towards it, giving John a significant look, shrugging his robe off as he went. 

“I guess now it is,” he heard John say in a disbelieving and breathy voice as he followed Sherlock to the chair. Turning, Sherlock looked at the chair meaningfully, and John gaped for a second, eyes dark with burgeoning lust. Finally getting the message after Sherlock looked at the chair again, he sat down, placing the cuffs and clips within easy reach on the table beside it. 

Sherlock centered himself, closing his eyes for a second, trying to get into the right mindset. Everything was easier when he could just send himself away, but that didn’t tend to happen right at the beginning - he supposed that might be because at the beginning, he actually liked some of what happened. However he could at least get into the zone of remembering that this was a service - do this for John, John is happy, John stays around a little longer. Knowing that made things a lot simpler. Opening his eyes, he fixed John with his most seductive expression and John inhaled sharply at the change. Stalking forwards slowly and mindful of the clips, Sherlock crossed his arms and toyed with the hem of his T-shirt, knowing that John had a thing for his pale skin. A lot of them did - because it was easy to mark it up. 

_ This is John.  _

_ Follow John.  _

Performing a subtle body-roll, Sherlock eased the T-shirt up and over his head, making sure John got a little show in the process. John’s breathing had already changed, his knees had already parted slightly. The incongruous thrill that Sherlock always felt at this moment, this embracing of the power he could hold when he wanted to, it spiked in his veins for a moment before fading into a background heat. Keeping his eyes fixed on John’s, Sherlock stalked forwards again, intending to drop to his knees - but John reached out, grabbed his hips, and pulled. 

Sherlock almost stumbled as his balance was thrown off, but he got one knee wedged in beside John’s thigh on his chair. John hummed in appreciation, and Sherlock understood what he wanted though he really disliked this position. Still, he shifted his weight so that he could raise his other knee until he was straddling John and sitting on his thighs.

“God,” John groaned, hands coming around to grasp Sherlock’s buttocks in a firm grip. He leaned forward and pressed his face to Sherlock’s neck, breathing deeply as he had that first morning, before beginning to kiss and lick along until he found Sherlock’s pulse point. He stopped there, kissing and nipping, and Sherlock’s own breath sped up despite himself. John moaned at the sound of it, and Sherlock braced himself with both hands on the back of the armchair by John’s head as John attacked his neck. 

“Cuffs,” John suddenly mumbled, and Sherlock cursed his own stupidity as he dropped his hands to his sides. John pulled back, grinning up at him as he grabbed the cuffs, fiddling with the buckles to get them open. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and this was familiar now which was at least something of an odd comfort. John had to contort slightly to be able to see at all around Sherlock’s back, laughing a couple of times as he fumbled with the buckles, but eventually the cuffs were on and he seemed satisfied. 

“Feel OK?” he asked, leaning in again to bite gently at Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock tried moving his hands. The fur slid against his skin without any friction, and the chain allowed for more movement than either the shirt or belt had done. A definite improvement. 

“Much better,” he said, and John broke off laving at his neck to absolutely beam at him. 

“I’m glad that sir is happy with the merchandise,” John joked, hands stroking up and down Sherlock’s sides. “Is there anything else I can help him with today?” 

Sherlock knew with a strange clarity what John wanted - he wanted him to banter back. Make little jokes, laugh, smile. But… he couldn’t. He could submit, he could switch off, he could let John do whatever it was that John needed to do… but to do all that and maintain such a massive fiction at the same time?

_ Impossible.  _

Sherlock nodded at the clips, wanting to get this over with. John sobered, letting go of Sherlock’s back so that Sherlock had to balance sitting on his bony thighs. His knees were already starting to ache. Holding one of the clips in one hand, John used the other to stroke a hand over Sherlock’s chest, passing over each nipple at first, then circling in towards the left. He leaned in and kissed it gently, then Sherlock felt his tongue lapping over it first slow, then faster. 

This… this actually felt pretty good, he realized. No one had ever done this before, and the sensitivity of his nipple surprised him. He could feel it peaking in John’s mouth, and let out a little gasp involuntarily. John hummed against his chest, then grabbed him by the lower back and pulled him further forward. Sherlock’s pyjama pants rucked up against John’s jeans and his thighs had to part further as his knees hit the back of the armchair. John continued to kiss and suck at his nipple, and Sherlock could only hear his own panting breath in the quiet of the living room. 

“Ready?” John said after one long, soft suck that had Sherlock’s head spinning. He came back to himself abruptly as he remembered the point of this entire exercise. He nodded, and John pressed the clip open between his thumb and finger, got it into position around the raised, pink nipple, then let go. 

Sherlock yelped - he couldn’t help it. It  _ hurt, _ it hurt so much more than he was expecting. It hurt like a hot jolt of electricity, and it continued to burn as it was left there. He writhed in place a little, leaning back and away from John, bracing his bound hands on John’s knees. 

“I’m sorry!” John was saying, obviously unsure of what to do next. Sherlock shook his head, leaning further back still, gasping against the pain as his body tried to get used to it. “I’ll take it off,” John said, hand coming up. 

“No!” Sherlock gasped, twisting in place, feeling John’s cock begin to harden through the layers of clothing between them. “No I… it’s alright. It was just… it was a shock…” he bit out, flares of pain still jumping out from the centre of his pectoral. He was afraid to even look at it, he honestly thought he would see a mangled, bloody mess. 

“Are you sure?” John asked, bringing up both hands to Sherlock’s back so he wouldn’t fall. Though he sounded worried, his erection continued to firm underneath Sherlock’s crotch, and Sherlock knew he had to stop wriggling, get a hold of himself. He needed to fade away, go into the trance like he had before. 

It wasn’t happening. 

“The other,” he gasped, not knowing how long he could stand it. John nodded, and there was no kissing or tonguing for the right nipple - he pinched it a little so it pebbled up, and then applied the second clip. 

Oh, it was agony, but in some ways it was better to have them both on than only one. Sherlock gasped again, refusing to allow himself to move, stared up at the ceiling and focused on breathing his way through the pain. John gasped too, and when Sherlock managed to look down at his face he could see him staring in rapt attention at where he could feel the chain connecting the clips resting against his chest. 

If Sherlock was going to get through this, he needed to speed things up. 

Taking one more deep breath, he dropped all of his weight and ground down against John’s crotch. John groaned, and his hands slipped down again to grab at Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock did it again slowly - once, twice, and then three in quick succession. John grunted, then slipped his hands down the back of Sherlock’s cotton pants. 

“That feels so good,” John groaned, bucking up as much as he was able. Sherlock felt a whine building in his own throat, as the searing pain in his chest refused to abate for a second. He could barely think past it, it felt like having two lit cigarettes pressed against his chest, and the comfortable room of his mind palace refused to open though he was banging on the door with both fists. 

John was starting to knead his buttocks in his hands as Sherlock struggled to maintain a rhythm, thrusting against him, feeling John’s hot cock rub against his crotch with every descent. John pressed his face against the front of Sherlock’s neck again, kissing as much as he was able, but already a bit out of control. His hands kept up their kneading, gently at first and then more demanding. With each circling motion he pulled Sherlock’s buttocks apart, and Sherlock started to feel sick. John obviously wanted to fuck him - probably soon. Maybe today. The memories of the few times he had done it before, had it done  _ to him _ … he couldn’t even access them, so tainted and awful were they. All that was left were impressions of pressure, of  _ pain, _ of feeling absolutely worthless. 

In desperation Sherlock picked up the pace, and John started snarling obscenities and urging him on. 

“Yeah, oh my god Sherlock, _ fuck, _ yes, just like that… oh… keep going…” 

The pain from the clips was excruciating, he felt the chain whacking him in the chest as he moved back and forth, felt terrified that John might remember it and decide to up the ante by tugging on it... But Sherlock was also afraid because he knew if John wanted to do that, he would let him. 

He wanted to tell him, then. He wanted to tell him  _ so badly. _ Wanted to tell John that he was afraid, not just of John, but of himself and how far he was willing to go to keep him. 

But John was starting to make uncoordinated movements. His breathing was erratic, his face was screwed up, his grip on Sherlock’s behind a dull throb of pain compared to the roaring flames from the clips…

“Sherlock, I’m… I’m…  _ nghhh _ ..” 

A few more rocks of his pelvis and he could feel a warm damp patch appear beneath him. Sherlock slumped forwards as John relaxed his grip and his movements calmed. John still had his face pressed into his neck, and Sherlock felt rather than heard a little rueful chuckle. 

“Coming in my pants,” John slurred against his skin. “Haven’t done that for a while.” 

Sherlock held still, eyes burning from the pain, wanting nothing more than to fight free of the cuffs so he could get the wretched little clips off. His breath hitched though he tried to prevent it, and to his horror his throat began to thicken with the unmistakable build-up to tears. 

“Hey, you OK?” John said, still sounding really out of it. He leaned back in the chair and saw the clips. “Oh, sorry! Let’s get those off,” he said, contrite, removing his hands from the back of Sherlock’s trousers with a proprietary little pat to his behind. He reached for the first clip and gently grasped the end, pressing down to release it. Sherlock took in a great lungful of air as the pressure released, somehow both painful and a relief at the same time. John moved straight on to the second, and as soon as it was off he leaned forward to kiss the red and throbbing nipple. 

The little sound of discomfort escaped Sherlock’s lips before he could prevent it, and John pulled back apologetically. “It’s alright,” John soothed. “How are you feeling?”

How was he  _ feeling? _

He was feeling like he was going to start screaming, or crying, or both. 

He was desperate at the thought that he had lost his ability to retreat from the situation, and the time was coming when John was going to fuck him, and he wasn’t going to be able to stand it. 

He was feeling like a massive hit of heroin might be just about the only thing that was going to save his life. 

“Fine,” he said, the word cold and alien in his mouth. He started shuffling backwards, hips and knees overstretched, and John closed his own legs and made space for him to stand. He swayed in place as he did so, blinking against the tears that felt like they were building up right behind the membranes of his eyes.

“Whoah, easy,” John said, also standing and reaching around for the cuffs. Sherlock spun around, not wanting to be caged between John’s arms just then, extending his arms backwards to present the cuffs. 

John undid each cuff easily now he could see them, fingertips trailing over the unharmed skin for a moment before letting go. Sherlock stepped away immediately, reaching for his T-shirt where it sat on the floor. 

“Are you alright?” John asked hesitantly. Sherlock refused to turn around, face hot and eyes wet. 

“Yes,” he said, moving next to his fallen robe. 

“OK,” said John. He definitely was starting to sound worried now. “But… it’s just… I mean, you didn’t…” 

Oh. 

John was worried because he’d realized that Sherlock hadn’t come. Worried that it somehow reflected badly on him, just as all the others had been worried. As if Sherlock would be able to, with what felt like little knives stabbing relentlessly into his chest. As if he even  _ wanted  _ to. 

There was a brief, loud moment just then, where Sherlock was sure he  _ hated  _ John Watson. So strong was the feeling that he knew he needed to get out of there -  _ now. _

“I’m going to Bart’s,” he said mechanically, walking to his bedroom door, hoping John wouldn’t say anything else. Was this what it was like for other people? It couldn’t be, it just  _ couldn’t  _ be. Why was it so hard to just do what his partner wanted, without getting so tangled up about it? Everyone else managed to do it just fine - compromise was part of relationships, and all that stuff. Why was it so difficult for Sherlock? Why did he have to be such a  _ freak? _

He must really be broken.

He closed his bedroom door just as the first traitorous tear escaped down his cheek, hot and cloying.  _ Follow John, _ he kept telling himself, but how was he going to when he couldn’t even bear to be in the same  _ room _ as him? He pulled off his T-shirt and screwed it into a ball, stuffing the material against his face for a moment as he resisted the urge to howl like a wounded animal. After a minute of laboured breathing he felt the material getting wet, and pulled it away, rubbing at his face. He couldn’t break down now, he  _ wouldn’t. _ There had to be a way through this, there  _ had  _ to be. 

Changing into one of his suits and trying to keep his sniffling quiet, he resolved to find a way. John deserved so much better than this. He deserved someone who would submit to his wishes, his needs, completely. Sherlock could do that, if he could find out how to trigger the trancelike state that had so eluded him today. He needed it,  _ they needed it. _ He would work out how to get it back, no matter what it took. 

He stopped in the bathroom to splash his face with water again, and caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked… dead. For just a second, it was the face of a corpse looking back at him from the glass. 

John was standing on the other side of the bathroom door to the landing. 

“Sherlock…” 

“Shower is all yours,” Sherlock said, moving around him and reaching for his coat. 

“Sherlock, please, wait…”

“John…” Sherlock sighed, pulling the Belstaff on and flipping up the collar - his ever-present protection. John looked upset, and that wouldn’t do. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.” 

“But… look, are you…”

“I’m not hurt,” Sherlock assured him, though the throbbing in his chest continued as the nipples rubbed against his shirt. “I’m just… distracted,” he added, which was absolutely true. 

“Oh,” John said, appearing to think that over a little. “Oh… well… you know next time if you don’t feel like it…”

“I did feel like it, John,” Sherlock said, trying to inject some confidence into his voice. If John thought that Sherlock were unwilling, it would all be over right there in the stairwell. “It’s just… I don’t always…”

“Oh,” John suddenly said, and Sherlock thought he recognised his own tone of voice in there somehow. John had obviously decided he had worked something out. “Oh,” John said again, then he rubbed the back of his head like he did when he was feeling especially awkward. “You don’t always… er… finish?”

_ Oh dear god.  _

But… this could actually work. 

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, eyes straining in their effort not to roll. Let John think he had some physical problem - that was a common reaction to Sherlock’s oddities as well. 

“Right,” John said, nodding to himself. “Er… right.” 

“I’m going to Bart’s,” Sherlock said firmly, and John nodded again. 

“OK. Um, shower for me.”

“Enjoy,” said Sherlock whirling away and trotting down the stairs. He heard the bathroom door close as he got to the ground floor and stepped out into the cold evening. 

He would find a way to fix this, he thought, putting out an arm to hail a cab. 

After all, he was a genius. He found solutions to things all the time. 

This was a case, and only he could solve it. So he would.

He was Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I look forward to reading your comments. Two chapters to go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags.

John dragged himself home after the fourth day in a row working at a local care home. They had had an outbreak of pneumonia, and John had been working with a team of elderly care specialists to make sure they got the prescriptions and treatments they needed. It had involved long hours, longer than usual, but now they were bringing in more staff he would be able to have a breather. 

Looking forward to a long sleep, he slipped into the flat. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and his bedroom door was closed. John frowned at it, wondering for the umpteenth time if he had done something to upset the now-reticent detective. They hadn’t seen much of each other since… since the chair, but the glimpses John had managed to get of him gave him cause for concern. The detective looked exhausted, drifting from one area of the flat to the other, until noticing John and pretending to occupy himself with a sudden need to read from a random piece of paper, or start scrolling on his phone. The skin under his eyes now looked like faint bruises - like someone had pressed their thumbs there, feeling the outline of the delicate eye-sockets. As far as John could tell, Sherlock’s sleep schedule was now completely altered as well; the long lay-ins and day-naps becoming the norm, rather than the exception. 

If John were using his medical opinion, he would say Sherlock was depressed, and John’s whole being pulsed with the need to do something, to _help._ He thought of danger-nights, of vague comments from friends and Sherlock himself about black moods, and murky ideas of a desperate past, and it hurt not to be able, _to be asked,_ to do anything about it. Looking with the eyes of Sherlock’s… companion? He still didn’t know how to refer to himself in regards to Sherlock, or vice versa… he would say that Sherlock was hiding something - trying desperately to hide something, and becoming worn-down with the effort. 

Just as he continued to wonder if he had upset Sherlock somehow, he also continued to wonder - _is it over already? Has he changed his mind? Is that what he’s hiding?_

After a quick snack and a deep sigh in the kitchen then a brief visit to the bathroom, he went upstairs and opened the dresser drawer to find some pajamas. Lifting up the top pair, he uncovered the things he had hidden beneath - the cuffs, the clamps, the flogger and the collar. He got the familiar squirming feeling in his gut when he looked at them; part titillation, part discomfort. 

He pulled some more clothes on top of the offending items and got into bed, but his mind kept circling back to them, and the part they had played in his last liaison with Sherlock. 

John had been so nervous - almost to the point of nausea - when he had presented the cuffs and clamps for Sherlock’s scrutiny. He had had no idea what to expect: derision at the items themselves, scorn for their quality, a happy trill of excitement, or a practical, ‘Mine are better, wait here.’ However, instead Sherlock had regarded both items with some caution, though it had been carefully controlled in both his expression and movement. John had been pleased when he had reached for the clamps because at least that indicated some sort of interest, but Sherlock had looked at the things the same way he would look at new lab equipment - curious, but curiosity on a practical level - it had not been the amorous joy that John had been secretly hoping for. Yet, Sherlock had said yes, agreeing to try them out, and had then moved immediately into what John was starting to think of as _sex mode._ His stance changed, he put on a ‘come hither’ look, his sole focus suddenly seemed to become how best to orchestrate the steps of the encounter for maximum pleasure… or maximum speed. 

It had not gone unnoticed by John that Sherlock did not appear to enjoy drawing these things out. It was like he planned exactly what was necessary in order for things to go well, then followed those steps with single-minded determination. There didn’t seem to be much room for improvisation, or even joking around. No, _sex mode_ meant serious business, and once again John found himself missing their easy banter and the gentle smiles of before. 

He lay in bed, thinking over again what had happened with the cuffs and the clamps. He wasn’t even remotely aroused while thinking back on it, because… it just seemed so… _strange,_ when looked at with an objective eye. When he had been in the moment, turned on and tense in their living room, having Sherlock’s warm weight on his thighs… he had been willing to go along with just about anything; whatever the other man wanted. Feeling Sherlock thrust against him, hearing his rapid panting and feeling the pulse in his neck flutter against John’s lips... it had been exhilarating if a little disturbing for John’s taste, and all of that had been enough to send him quickly on his way to orgasm.

Afterwards, though… Sherlock hadn’t even wanted to look at him. He had climbed down off John’s lap, legs wobbly as a new-born foal, drawn and pale but with a flush high on his cheeks as if of a fever. John had reached for him just as Sherlock had stepped away to collect his clothes, John’s hands closing on empty air. He hadn’t known what to say, hadn’t known what to do. He at least thought he should be doing something to make Sherlock feel as good as John had mere moments before… but as Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom he had wondered with a sinking feeling if that had been his mistake. Was Sherlock upset that John pointed out he hadn’t orgasmed? Was there some kind of issue there?

As a doctor, John had seen and discussed it all when it came to reproductive health. People with performance anxiety, with erectile problems, those who couldn’t orgasm during penetrative sex and those who could only orgasm that way, and those who never orgasmed at all. Some he referred on to sexual health experts, others just really needed someone to talk to that wasn’t going to laugh at them. He was skilled at those kinds of discussions - when to push, when to back-off, when to recommend, when to encourage - but with Sherlock it just all seemed to desert him. He had waited anxiously on the landing for Sherlock to emerge, hoping to at least _offer_ to have that kind of conversation in the future if Sherlock had wanted to, but then he had completely fumbled it when he saw how evasive the man continued to be. It had been obvious that Sherlock had wanted out of the flat as fast as possible, and if John were honest with himself he had been relieved to end the awkward amateur-like conversation and grant him his wish. 

John rolled over, punching his pillow and trying to get comfortable. Of course, there was a much more plausible explanation for Sherlock’s lack of climax - that John _still_ wasn’t doing what he wanted, or needed. John was usually able to read his sexual partners like a book, giving them everything they wanted and asked for, but with Sherlock it was like he had been given a book in braille; he knew there was meaning in there somewhere if he could interpret what his senses were telling him, but he just didn’t know how to understand it. 

He thought back on the few times they had been together, and tried to work out what might be working, and what wasn’t. Sherlock certainly responded to being restrained - though still not with the happy, unguarded sensuality that John had dreamed about, but at least he had some kind of response to it - and the few times John had given him a short command he had seemed to appreciate that as well. So… John needed to be more commanding? Rougher? Was Sherlock waiting for John to tell him what to do?

It was possible; Sherlock had certainly gone for a strong, domineering personality when he had had… whatever that had been, with Irene Adler. John could picture her, the image of cold control, snapping out orders and doling out punishments without a flicker of a guilty conscience. He knew that the people who went to visit her did it of their own free will and he didn’t begrudge them that - but he just could not replace this image of a calculating lover with a vast array of tools at their disposal, with himself. 

Giving orders, being in control… that was army life, for John, and often the orders he had given had resulted in unpleasant or deadly consequences for those under his command. He didn’t regret his service, was working through his feelings of guilt with Ella, but he also had no desire at all to bring that side of himself back, and especially not while getting closer to someone he cared about. 

What if that was what Sherlock was attracted to, though? What if that was the reason he had decided to go along with all of this in the first place, the idea that ‘Captain Watson’ was going to take control and be the master that he could submit to in the bedroom? What if Sherlock was realizing that John was just playing with the toys - the cuffs, the clamps - but really had no idea how to use them, how to be that kind of person? Had the little scene in the armchair really been that disappointing?

John punched the pillow away, trying to get his thoughts to stop spiralling - because really, there was only one way forward. John was just going to have to get over himself, because if that was what it was going to take to keep Sherlock, he would do it, no question - but if he kept hesitating, kept putting in half the effort, then there was a danger that the window of opportunity would close and Sherlock would be lost to him; both as a lover and a friend. There was no way back from where they were now - no way to forget everything that had happened between them, no way to unsee what John had seen. He wouldn’t be able to just be Sherlock’s friend, and as for what that would actually mean in reality…

He couldn’t even think about it. 

His tired gaze strained through the dark towards the dresser and its closed top drawer, his mind’s eye picturing again the secret stash of items that John wished he didn’t have to own. 

****************************************

John felt he was as ready as he was ever going to be. He had finally read the pamphlet he had got free from Racy’s, though it was fair to say he hadn’t fully understood what he was reading. It had been hard to focus properly on learning about something that he just didn’t want to do, and it had reminded him of trying to concentrate on his least favorite subjects at school. He did think however that he had at least grasped the three basics: safe, sane, consensual. Whatever he and Sherlock did from now on had to be safe; no more erratic or risky behaviors that would get either of them hurt, as had happened in the kitchen. Sane; they wouldn’t be doing anything to harm the mind either… though John struggled with this somewhat. Did it count as harming his mind if he was doing something he found personally distasteful? Anyway, consensual: he was going to continue asking Sherlock clearly if he wanted to try things, as he had with the cuffs and clamps. He didn’t think they had much of an issue with this part, as the Sherlock he knew never did _anything_ that he didn’t want to do. 

He had balked when reading through suggested conversations to have with your partner, though. Not only was he unwilling to admit to Sherlock just how little he knew about BDSM, he also had a strong suspicion that this kind of talk would only cool Sherlock’s affections, not stoke them. Plus, Sherlock was already an expert in all this, it was only John who was trying to learn, so there was no point in going over all the basics. 

It was late afternoon on his day off, and he was waiting for Sherlock to come back from wherever he had disappeared off to that morning. Sherlock had come out of his bedroom at 10:30am, fully dressed in his charcoal suit, wrapped himself up in his coat and scarf and whipped out the door before John had even gathered his thoughts. The suit, scarf and coat did nothing to hide the pinched quality to Sherlock’s face and frame - he had definitely lost weight, and John had wondered if there was a way to incorporate eating more into the dom/sub relationship that he was gearing up to introduce. If the only good thing that came of all of this was that Sherlock was happy and healthy again, it would be a price worth paying. 

John had dressed in his black jeans and a black shirt, which was about the closest thing he owned to what he pictured as a dark, commanding outfit, and his feet were bare. He had laid out his room upstairs for the… the _scene._ He’d taken the duvet and pillow off the bed so that all that remained was the cover sheet, then laid the wrist and ankle cuffs on top of it. The flogger and clamps were on his cleared bedside-table, along with a bottle of lube and condoms. He would definitely be getting Sherlock’s consent before using any of it, but he was forcing himself to put it all out where it could be seen. What Sherlock wanted, Sherlock would get. 

The collar was wedged into his back jeans pocket, handle in the other pocket,chain dangling over his backside. The idea was to greet Sherlock, tell him what they were going to do, get his consent and then…

And then…

John berated himself. _If you can’t even THINK it, how do you expect to do it?_

And then… he was going to put the collar around Sherlock’s neck, and lead him up the stairs to John’s bedroom. 

John felt alternate flushes of hot and cold pass over him at the thought, and he paced the living room for what was surely the hundredth time, chain bumping against his behind as he did so. It just seemed so… so _silly,_ and _humiliating,_ for he and Sherlock both. Sherlock was not a pet to be led around - he was wild, free, and untameable. Or at least he should be, in John’s opinion, but he knew that hoping didn’t make it true. 

He clenched and released his hands as he paced, feet cold on the carpet, coaching himself over and over. _It has to be believable, you can’t play at this. You have to be firm, be in control. Tell him what to do, make it clear and direct, no messing about. If he thinks for a second you aren’t serious, then…_

He heard the downstairs door open, and his heart leapt into his throat.

_I can’t do this!_

John forced the panic back though it made him queasy, and moved himself into a military stance, facing the door. 

Sherlock came in, movements slow and listless. His eyes were on the floor, he looked, if anything, even worse than when he went out. He had hung up his coat and scarf and was toe-ing off his shoes before he even noticed John’s presence. When he did however… the effect was startling. Glazed pale eyes came suddenly into focus, widening as he took in John’s unusual clothing choice, his bare feet, his clenched fists, and his raised chin. Sherlock swallowed almost audibly, a flash of trepidation over his face before it was schooled into the blank calm face that John was determined to erase before the day was over. It already didn’t look as secure as previously - the edges of it appeared brittle in Sherlock’s weakened state. 

_This will make him feel better,_ John reminded himself, fighting with his disquiet, and he stood even straighter. 

“Come here, Sherlock,” John said firmly, indicating the spot of floor in front of him. Sherlock blinked, eyes looking quickly towards his bedroom. 

“I was just going to…”

“Come _here,_ Sherlock.” John repeated, bringing out every nuance of Captain Watson that he remembered, feeling pained on bringing him back after he had worked so hard laying him to rest.

Sherlock hesitated. 

“Unless you aren’t interested in spending time with me today,” said John, keeping his voice even and crossing his arms - which had the added benefit of helping to hide the tremble in his limbs.

Sherlock blinked again, glanced one more time at his bedroom door, but then walked slowly over to stand a foot in front of John. He clasped his hands behind his back, stood straight, and appeared to be listening attentively. He was obviously trying to work out what was going on, though John knew he would already have some idea. 

Alright, step one was complete. What was next… 

_Safe, sane, consensual._

“Do you want to _play_ with me today, Sherlock?” John had spent some time on his word choices earlier. He had wanted to say, ‘Do you want to have some fun?’ but Sherlock didn’t treat sex as fun so that wasn’t going to make sense. ‘Play’ seemed like an odd word to John in this context, but he knew he had to let that go - it was part of BDSM vocabulary, so he put the right inflection on it to get his point across. 

The familiar furrow appeared between Sherlock’s brows, and he looked John over once again, before giving a small, sharp nod. 

“Use your words,” John said sternly, trying to keep his gaze hard. That did get a reaction - Sherlock looked momentarily surprised. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, face flushing. 

“Good,” John said, nodding, beginning to feel, if not comfortable, then at least that he might be taking this in the right direction. “From now on, if I ask you a question, you have to answer verbally, do you understand?”

“Yes,” the detective repeated, flush deepening but voice stronger. John nodded again. 

“Alright, take your jacket off and lay it over the chair,” he said, gesturing. A moment’s pause, and then Sherlock did as he was told. The listlessness was gone, his lean muscles seemed rigid under his dark blue shirt, which was hanging looser than it should have been. Almost mechanically, he folded the suit jacket once and laid it over the back of one of the chairs, then came back to stand in front of John again. He was still blushing, hands in position behind his back. 

“Good,” John said, remembering from his reading that he should make sure Sherlock knew when he had done something right. Sherlock didn’t look pleased though - his face was still empty, though he did blink rapidly for a moment upon hearing the word. 

“This is what we are going to do,” John said, forcing himself to hold eye contact and fighting his own embarrassment. “I am going to take you upstairs where I’ve laid out some things for us to play with. I’m going to tell you what I want to do with each of them, and you’re going to agree or disagree.” He paused then, frowning internally at how business-like this was all coming across. He decided he needed to say something sexier, or he wasn’t even going to be able to perform once they were up there. “Then I’m going to use my toys, my hands and my lips on you, and I’m going to make you come so hard that you forget everything there ever was to know about Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand?”

Sherlock was beginning to look a little shell-shocked, the blush intensifying high over his cheekbones and down his long neck. 

“Yes,” he rasped, swallowing again and wincing apparently at the sound of his own voice. Was that arousal? It was still so hard for John to tell. 

“Good,” John repeated, then he pointed at the space in between them. “Kneel down.” 

Sherlock cocked his head, there were more blinks, but he didn’t question the order. He took one step forward and slowly sank to his knees. From here John could see that his eyes were getting red, and see the pallor of his forehead. _He must be really exhausted,_ John thought with sympathy. Hopefully a round of… of _play,_ would help him to sleep. 

John reached both hands around his back, removed the collar, and brought it around in front of Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock’s breath hitched, once, twice, before it seemed to stop all together. The blush that had been staining his cheeks literally drained away in front of John’s eyes, leaving him looking grey and limp. His red-rimmed eyes were fixed, unmoving onto the collar and chain in John’s hands. Warning bells started to chime loudly in the back of John’s mind, and his skin began to prickle - but this was what Sherlock wanted…

Wasn’t it?

“I’m going to put this around your neck, then lead you up the stairs,” he said, fighting a losing battle to keep his voice even. “Do you agree?”

Sherlock kept staring at the collar, a twitch appearing on one cheek. 

“Sherlock - _do you agree?”_ John pushed, beginning to sweat himself. 

Sherlock breathed in sharply through his nose, and closed his eyes. His lashes seemed damp…

“Yes,” he whispered, mouth barely moving.

Foreboding washed over John. This wasn’t right. Shouldn’t Sherlock be elated at this turn of events, shouldn’t he be panting with lust and eager to begin? But then… ‘should’ hardly ever applied to Sherlock, and he had said yes…

The detective’s eyes were still closed when John stepped forward, undoing the collar, the chain clinking against the buckle. Sherlock was frozen in place, and as John nudged his shirt aside with one hand, he could feel how cold the skin there was. He might have been touching an alabaster statue - a beautiful copy of a beloved body, but without a trace of life within.

_No._

He took a sharp step back, conscious and unconscious mind at war with each other, but a primal instinct telling him that this situation was all kinds of wrong. He took another step back, and another, movements ungainly and clumsy. He tossed the collar away, and it landed with a thunk on their wooden table. 

Sherlock startled at the sound, eyes finally opening again, and for a moment he just looked confused at how far away John now was. He looked from the floor where John had been standing, looked at John’s feet, looked towards the table to find the source of the noise…

And then Sherlock… crumbled. There was no other word for it. Tears rose up and over his eyelids as John watched, aghast, the liquid streaming down the pale cheeks, and for a heart-stopping moment he just stared at John, desolate. Then his eyes closed, and his whole face screwed up in misery. He didn’t make a sound at first, just dropped back to sit on his feet, spine curved, hands coming around to cover his face, elbows digging into his knees. 

John stood there gaping, unable to process what he was seeing, until the first hitched sob came from the tangle of limbs now shaking on their living room floor. 

“Sherlock!” he gasped, jumping forward and sinking into a crouch on the carpet. His hands hovered over Sherlock’s shoulder and arms, afraid to touch, terrified of doing the wrong thing, all false bravado and assumed authority gone. “Sherlock,” he cried again, but he got no response at all, aside from the figure curling impossibly even tighter. Sherlock’s hitching breaths sped up, and John’s own heart rate spiked upon hearing it. “I’m sorry,” he said, desperately. _“I’m sorry!”_

Sherlock shuddered at that, curls shaking back and forth furiously under the arms now folded across his face, a thin wail emanating that made tears well up in John’s own eyes. Sherlock sounded… devastated. Like something precious had just died in front of him. 

Was it… was it the collar? He was so upset because John had backed out?

“Do you… do you want the collar?” John asked timidly, then fell backwards at the explosion of movement in front of him. Sherlock uncoiled like a spring, knocked John off the balls of his feet and clung to his waist, face pressed into his stomach. His grip was so hard it hurt John’s ribs, but as he struggled to sit up, he heard Sherlock babbling at high speed.

“No no no, I’m _sorry_ Jaco... John, I’m _SORRY,_ please no… _please_ please PLEASE no, _I’m sorry_ please don’t use the collar I can’t _I can’t I CAN’T…”_

The words continued, a steady stream of unevenly stuttered syllables flowing into John’s shirt, in amongst the hitching shallow breaths that were getting faster and faster and faster… John felt a tear slip down his own cheek, and began to feel a deep fear of what was happening. He wrapped his arms as much as he could around Sherlock’s body, but this just seemed to make the stuttering movements and sounds come out with more force. 

_“Sherlock,”_ he said, voice breaking. He tried to breathe through the upset, but the mounting hysteria coming from Sherlock and the intensity of emotions on display were almost overwhelming. 

“John, no, _please_ I can do better, I can, just don’t leave, please I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry…”_

“Sherlock,” John said again, trying to reign in his plummeting feelings and reaching for the doctor side of himself who was watching the scene unfold, appalled. He tried to remove Sherlock’s grip so he could get them both into a sitting position, but this caused Sherlock to shake his head rapidly again and hold on even tighter, entire body trembling like a leaf. “Sherlock, you have to let go…”

“ _NO!_ No, John, I… I _can’t,_ I.. _John_ …”

John cursed as the body on top of him began to go limp; Sherlock’s breathing pattern slipped into something completely erratic, his grip disappeared, and his voice dropped to be barely audible.

“John… John, _help me…”_

Able now to move and embracing his medical training, John got Sherlock off him and rolled him onto his side, efficiently arranged his limbs into the recovery position, and struggled to tamp down his rising desperation.

“Sherlock… Sherlock, you are having a panic attack and we need you to calm down or you’re going to pass out,” he said, peeling back one of his friend’s eyelids and checking for awareness. To think that he had contributed to this…

_Stop! Help him now, beat yourself up later!_

“Sherlock?” John dropped down to lay on the floor next to him, not touching but close enough that Sherlock hopefully knew he was there. Sherlock’s breathing was still off, but now it was like he was trying to be quiet, eyes far away. He made John think of a child playing hide-and-seek, stifling the sounds of his breathing from behind a door... It was eerie and wrong. There was no recognition in his eyes, no flicker of acknowledgement, and his curly fringe was plastered to his head with sweat. 

Deciding to risk it, John reached out to stroke up and down his friend’s side, debating with himself if he should be calling an ambulance right now. As far as he could tell, this wasn’t a purely physical problem, and the A&E was not the place to deal with the more delicate matters of the mind. Sherlock was freezing, the cold apparent even through his shirt, and John jumped up to grab a blanket from the couch. He draped it over Sherlock slowly so as not to startle him, but there still was no response at all. John lay down again, cheek against the carpet, getting as close to Sherlock as he dared and letting the little finger of his hand just graze Sherlock’s ever-so-slightly. His breathing was thankfully evening out, but the change from hysteria coupled with desperate, gasping words to this dissociative and silent state was stark. 

“Sherlock, you’re safe. It’s just you and me. I’m not going to touch you, I’m not going to do anything to you. We’re here in Baker Street. See the carpet? Can you feel it with your hand? Remember what colour it is, what it smells like when we vacuum? You’re safe, nothing is going to hurt you…”

John continued, mumbling on and on, his words flowing over each other, sounds almost meaningless after a while aside from their soothing tone and promise of safety. He kept on, though his shoulder started to seize, his leg started to cramp, and the cold of the floor seeped into his bones. Sherlock lay there, placid, the occasional slow movement of his eyelashes the only indication that he was awake at all. 

After a long time and just when John was starting to think he would need that ambulance after all, there was a change. There was a tiny movement in Sherlock’s hand, fingers moving against the carpet. He blinked again, and something in the eyes changed as they became more aware. The little finger resting against John’s twitched, and Sherlock blinked again, the lax expression becoming confused. One more blink, and he looked over his hand and at John’s face, as if just noticing him for the first time. 

“...John?”

It was a whisper that hardly moved the air, but the knot of John’s insides began to relax slightly in relief. 

“Hey,” he said, voice and gaze full of desperate worry and affection. “It’s me. You’re safe.”

Sherlock’s eyes moved around a little more, and he shifted his body slightly, perhaps testing the weight of the blanket draped over him.

“Where…?”

“We’re in the flat, in the living room. This is our carpet, see?” 

“... on the floor?”

“Yeah,” John said, aching to reach out and stroke Sherlock’s arm in comfort but not sure if it would be welcome. “You weren’t feeling very well, so I laid you down here. How are you feeling now?”

Sherlock appeared to consider this. 

“Tired,” he said at last, voice still soft as a feather. 

“OK,” John said, smiling in encouragement. “That’s OK, Sherlock, that’s good. But it’s not good to sleep on the floor, yeah? Can I help you get to your bed?”

More consideration. Sherlock was looking at John as if unsure who he was, and the worry that John had momentarily set aside came roaring back to make it hard to think. 

“Bed?” Sherlock questioned. There was something… innocent, about him, about the way he was acting. Wary but trusting, confused but hopeful. 

“Just to sleep, Sherlock,” John said to reassure him, but his throat suddenly began to close again and his eyes blurred with tears, taking him by surprise. He sniffed, trying to keep the tears at bay. Sherlock peered a little closer, and then he moved his hand slowly from the carpet, sliding it over until it covered John’s. John had to hold back a sob, and despite his best efforts one tear ran down his cheek to spread among the fibers of the carpet. 

“Why are you crying?” Sherlock asked, with childlike curiosity. John sniffled a bit more, his lip trembling, worried that if they didn’t get up soon he was going to have a full-on meltdown himself.

“Because I’ve hurt you, and you… you’re… you’re not well, and I don’t know how to make you feel better,” John admitted, guilt an almost visceral thing in his torso, and he closed his eyes and slid his head over until his forehead was resting against the edge of their hands, cheek protesting against the rough carpet. 

Sherlock hummed something soothing, and he squeezed the back of John’s hand. 

“Are you tired too?” Sherlock asked softly, and John pressed his head even harder against their fingers.

“Yes,” he said, voice cracking, and he realized that it was true - he was exhausted. The stress and anxiety not just of this afternoon but of the last month, every dark and insecure thought, the case, the care home, the broken sleep… he had been concerned about Sherlock’s failing health and hadn’t even noticed his own. 

What a _mess._

“Then let’s go to bed,” Sherlock said, squeezing his hand again. He started to sit up, and John pulled back, momentarily surprised at the movement after so long in the same position. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one getting Sherlock up off the floor? He swallowed down his tears, rubbing a hand over his face, and scrambled to his feet. He put his hand down for Sherlock, and was so, so grateful when Sherlock took it without a second thought. The light from the window had changed, fading to dark blue, and John realized they must have been on the floor for an hour or more.

He pulled Sherlock to his feet, the blanket falling to the floor, and he intended to stop there and stand back - but Sherlock moved forward with a tired echo of his usual grace, wrapped his long arms around John’s back, and crouched slightly to tuck his head onto John’s shoulder. He did it like it was natural, like they had always done it - _like they always should have been doing,_ John thought to himself as he encircled that thin, treasured body in return, astonished to be granted such a chance once again. He rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock’s curved back, eyes welling up again as Sherlock sighed in contentment against his neck.

“Sleep, yeah?” John asked, sniffing. Sherlock nodded against his neck, then pulled back. His eyelids were already drooping. “Come on,” John said, and he knew that all of the love he felt for this man in his arms was right there in his voice - and he didn’t care. He nudged Sherlock in the right direction, and they walked together to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock opened the door and pulled John gently along with him, moving directly to the bed. John pulled back the covers and gestured for Sherlock to get in. He did, still in his suit trousers and blue shirt, but it didn’t matter. He slid across the mattress and stared at John, eyes huge in his head, and when John also got in he looked so, so relieved. John turned to look at him, mirroring the way they had been laying on the carpet. 

“Stay?” Sherlock asked, then yawned the way a child would yawn - big and unselfconscious. 

“Of course,” said John, and he reached again for Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock linked his fingers with John’s giving a shy, tired smile. John felt wrung out from all the emotion, but yet again he felt a lump forming in his throat. “I missed you,” he whispered, saying it again as he had in the kitchen, days, _years_ before. 

“I’ve been right here,” Sherlock whispered back, and though he was still far from himself, his eyes were warm. 

“I know,” said John, and it sounded like an apology. “But… I think I didn’t see you,” he added quietly. “I see but I do not observe.”

“I observe, but I don’t see,” said Sherlock, and his eyes closed for a moment before he dragged them back open tiredly. 

“It’s alright, love,” John said, endearment slipping out but unimportant, as the impulse to pull Sherlock close and never let him go became almost too hard to ignore. “May I hold you?” he asked, and the faint glimmer of happiness in Sherlock’s eyes let him know that he might be finally, _finally_ doing the right thing. 

Sherlock didn’t answer, but he unlinked their hands and reached for John, like a wilting flower turning towards the sun after a long, long night. John got one hand under him, the other loosely resting on his waist, and Sherlock folded so that his head rested on John’s chest, calves tucked between John’s knees, long arms around his shoulders. The hum of contentment Sherlock emitted made John’s heart pound, deep and strong, ready to do whatever it took to hear that sound again. They lay there quietly, and John began to lose track of his thoughts.

“John?” Sherlock whispered, just as John was drifting to sleep.

“Hmm?”

“What’s going to happen next?”

John hugged him a little tighter against the thread of anxiety he heard in the quiet question. He roused himself slightly, knowing that this was extremely important.

“Next, we’re going to sleep, and sleep, for as long as we can. Then, we’re going to eat something, and we’re going to talk. I’m going to tell you all about me, things I’ve never told anyone, things that’ll make you happy and some things that’ll make you sad. And I hope that you’ll tell me all about you, too.” He paused, weighing his words. “I think maybe, we’ll need some help so we can say some of these things. We can talk about getting some help, if you want?”

Instead of a tired rebuttal, Sherlock just hummed, an affirming little sound that John felt vibrate against his ribs. 

“I’m not good at talking,” Sherlock agreed, like he was telling a deep secret. “Help would be… good.”

John smiled into the pillow then, and it felt like the first genuine smile that he’d had for _weeks._

“Yes,” he said, and he leaned down on impulse and pecked a quick and gentle kiss against the tangled curls under his chin. “It’ll be good,” he promised, the words fading away as he fell into a deep sleep. 

John dreamed of calm waves on warm shores, sunshine bronzing his skin. He dreamed of walking with a cool hand held in his; palm to palm. He was feeling hopeful as he dreamed, as he walked on, feet sinking in the sand and skin singing in the sun. 

He was was feeling hopeful because he knew: they were on their way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter coming soon.
> 
> What did you think? Let me know in the comments.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOW COMPLETE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15,000 words later... once these two got talking, they didn't want to stop. I hope I did right by them.

Sherlock woke up very slowly. He couldn’t remember dreaming, which was very strange for him… in fact, couldn’t remember much at all. His pillow felt different, and one of his feet was asleep due to a heavy weight on top of it, and there was a smell… a smell like… but that wasn’t…

He dragged his heavy eyes open, and inhaled sharply through his nose as his eyes confirmed what his other senses had been chanting: John. 

_ John John John John… _

John's arms were around Sherlock’s waist, his knees and feet tangled with Sherlock’s, his  _ head  _ resting against Sherlock’s head, his  _ skin was touching _ Sherlock’s he was  _ on _ Sherlock’s  _ bed _ in  _ Sherlock’s room _ breathing the same air  _ we slept in the same bed… _

Sherlock slammed his eyes shut, trying to calm the whirling tornado of thoughts that were trying their very best to intrude on the peaceful scene. He tried to search back through his memories, search for how this could have possibly happened… but he was coming up empty. He remembered coming home. Remembered what he was planning to do once he got to his bedroom… but John had stopped him,  _ had John known? _ Did John know what was hidden in his jacket pocket? And then John had called him over, he had seemed angry, had spoken oddly, not like John at all, more like the not-John that Sherlock had been meeting with some regularity recently. He had talked to Sherlock the way some clients used to talk to him, laying down rules and speaking of rewards that were just punishments with a better reputation. He had… he had… 

He had bought a collar.

Sherlock was glad he was already laying down, as a swoop of dizziness overcame him then and he had to take a few deep breaths to let it pass. John stirred and Sherlock froze, trying to make even his heartbeat be quiet… but John settled back down, continuing to sleep. 

Was that how they had ended up in bed together? John… John put a collar on him, and…

_ No _ … no, he remembered now. John had asked him if he agreed, and even though Sherlock had said yes, John had still heard him say ‘no’. It was a miracle, really, because although it was true that Sherlock had been  _ screaming _ ‘no’ over and over inside his head, it hadn’t come out of his mouth, and he knew that that meant it didn’t count. 

John had thrown the collar away, and Sherlock had been one hundred percent sure, that that was the end. John didn’t want him, he was too defective, too broken, too… unloveable. A total lost cause, not even worth the bother of collaring…

It was all a bit of a blur after that. He remembered feeling desperate, perhaps more desperate than he had ever felt in his life, and finally after  _ days  _ of remaining closed to him, his mind palace had opened up and he had run inside his safe-haven with barely a backwards glance. He had gotten into the main lobby and slammed the huge wooden doors shut, dropping to the cold marble floor and rocking in place, keening. He had stayed there for some time, holding the door handles above him in a grip that was making his hands feel numb, pressed against the wooden doors, terrified of the dangers that were out there…

Eventually though, Sherlock’s natural curiosity got the better of him. There was no banging on the doors, no-one intruding, demanding to be allowed in, as had happened before. There was no shouting either, no entreaties. He could hear some kind of murmuring, but instead of asking impossible things of him or scorning him with cruel words, it had sounded… warm. Worried. 

It had sounded… like… lov…

Sherlock couldn’t even  _ think  _ the word. 

He had uncurled and staggered over to the foyer windows, thick old glass with minute bubbles inside, making the image unclear. He could see a blur of John, sitting out there on the gravel drive, just sitting right on the floor, like he was there everyday. He had looked so sad, and he had been crying too - Sherlock couldn’t see it properly through the windows, but he knew it just the same. 

_ Why are you crying? _ he had asked. John shouldn’t have been able to hear him from inside the palace, but still, he answered:

_ Because I’ve hurt you, and you’re not well, and I don’t know how to make you feel better. _

Well, that wouldn’t do. John was a doctor, and when he was put in a situation where he couldn’t help people, he became … stretched. Monotone.  _ Dull. _

_ Are you tired too? _ Sherlock had wondered, because he must be - to have lost his shine and be sitting down on the driveway, outside in the cold. 

_ Yes, _ John had said, and Sherlock had pulled the doors open and set off towards him without even thinking about what he was doing. He had reached John, stood so his shadow fell across John’s face, but John had just looked up at him, tears still falling.  _ Let’s go to bed, _ he remembered saying, reaching down and pulling John up and into his arms. John had felt so cold… or… or had that been him? 

He couldn’t remember, and everything after that was a tangle of half-remembered words. Somehow they must have gotten from the driveway of the mind palace back to his room in 221B, but… how? And how had John been outside the palace in the first place? Had he been? What…

“Sherlock?” John asked from somewhere above, voice gravelly. Startled, Sherlock twitched, then winced at his own reaction.

“Hey, it’s just me,” John said, more awake now, his hand beginning to smooth circles into Sherlock’s spine. “It’s just me.”

Needing data, Sherlock pulled back reluctantly, not wanting to show his face, but needing to see John’s. John smiled at him through a little yawn. His hair was a mess, his eyes were soft, there were little lines around them that Sherlock hadn’t been able to see this closely before… 

_ This is John. _

But… John didn’t sleep in his bed. John didn’t want to, he’d never wanted to. And John didn’t… cuddle. John slept upstairs. He slept upstairs, he made the tea, sometimes he got off with Sherlock while Sherlock’s hands were tied behind his back…

Sherlock pulled back even more, bringing his splayed arm back to his own chest, and the sleepy smile on John’s face began to fade.

“Hey…” John said, tightening his hold on Sherlock but then appearing to think better of it and letting his arms hang loose. “Uh… look… if you want me to go, I can. I will. I just…”

Sherlock felt around behind himself for how much mattress was available before he ended up on the floor, then pulled his numb foot out from between John’s shins. John frowned. 

“I just… I … it was so nice waking up like this…” John said. He sounded… sad. 

Why would John want to wake up like this? 

_ Oh.  _

Sherlock stilled, considering. The previous evening might be a bit of a strange fog, but it had started out with John being…  _ in the mood. _ Then something had happened to spoil his plans, and they hadn’t had sex… or at least Sherlock didn’t think they had? Nothing hurt, and he still seemed to be wearing all his clothes, so it was probably safe to assume that John hadn’t actually gotten what he had wanted. 

He heard the front door of his mind palace creak open…

“Sherlock?”

Blinking, Sherlock chased away the vision of strong solid doors and a warm fireplace. Time for that later. John was looking at him with concern, arm still resting on Sherlock’s waist, but tense. Taking a breath, Sherlock smoothed out his face as he had many times before - smoothed away the worry, the nerves, the distress. He changed the angle of his face, calculating what would look the most seductive from John’s perspective, and reached out towards John's stomach, fingers wandering down lower over his abdomen…

John’s hand appeared, snatched Sherlock’s up, brought it over to John’s lips and he kissed the back of it, fiercely. 

Sherlock stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. 

“No, Sherlock,” John whispered against his hand, eyes regretful, but fierce with something Sherlock didn’t dare to name. “That’s not what I want.”

Sherlock frowned. He could see that John was aroused, his jeans were bulging - why was he denying himself what he wanted, what Sherlock could do for him…

_ Because he doesn’t want you, _ said a nasty voice from deep inside the palace. Sherlock glanced towards it, and all at once the partially-opened door slammed shut and all the lights went out.

“I’m sorry,” John said, words pooling against the skin of Sherlock’s knuckles. “You’ve been doing all these things for me, but I realize now… you didn’t really want to do them, hmm?” 

Sherlock looked back at him and shook his head immediately, because that  _ wasn’t true, _ John  _ couldn’t think _ that was true.

“You wanted to do all those things that we’ve done?” John asked, voice calm but intense. 

Sherlock nodded, and then remembered he was supposed to use his words. 

“Yes,” he said, surprised at how off his voice sounded. 

“You wanted to kiss me?” John pressed, holding Sherlock’s hand captive hand under his chin, against John’s throat. 

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, unable to lie in such a strange position. 

“You wanted to have sex with me?”

That was a little more complicated. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, but even he heard the hedging in his own voice. John closed his eyes for a moment, and Sherlock felt a fresh pang of anxiety. “I wanted to make you feel good,” he blurted, needing John to understand. John sighed, but he did open his eyes again. 

“But what about you, hmm? Did it feel good for you?”

Sherlock started to nod, but John’s grip on his hand suddenly increased, and he stopped halfway. 

“I…” he started, and with horror he could feel himself start getting upset. John looked sympathetic, but he didn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand. “I… yes… sometimes… some… of the things…”

John’s eyes were very bright now. 

“Well,” John said faintly. “That’s… good? I guess…” Sherlock saw his Adam’s apple working furiously for a moment, and wondered how he could edge further away across the bed without John noticing. 

“I’m sorry,” John went on, and Sherlock was just as confused as before. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he tried, but now it was John who was furiously shaking his head. 

“Yes there is… and I’m sorry too that you don’t see that, Sherlock. I’m so,  _ so sorry. _ But it’s getting clearer to me now, what’s been going on, and you’re right - I really am an idiot.” A tear appeared on the edge of one of John’s lower lashes, and when he blinked it was let loose, following the contours of his cheek and trailing down until it disappeared into the corner of his mouth. 

Sherlock had never seen such a thing before. 

“I wanted to be with you,” Sherlock tried, voice hushed, not understanding how to stop John from being upset - because if John was upset, he would leave.... John smiled at him weakly, another tear tipping over and following the path of the first. 

“I’m glad,” John whispered. “Because I wanted to be with you, too. But… not like that. Not when you’re feeling… scared. Scared of me.” 

John’s lower lip actually wobbled then, and Sherlock couldn’t stand it. 

“I wasn’t scared of you!” he said, trying to get his voice to properly convey his meaning for once. “Because… you’re  _ you! _ And I… I don’t know about these things, John. I don’t know how it’s supposed to work. But you do…”

John sniffed, wiping his cheek with his hand, which had the added effect of wiping it with Sherlock’s. Sherlock stopped talking, staring with wonder at his damp hand.

“What things, Sherlock? The sex stuff? Because, no offense, you obviously knew what you were doing there…”

Sherlock huffed. 

“That? That’s just… moves. This goes here, that goes there. Everyone knows I’m good at that, but you’re good at the other things…”

“Everyone?” John questioned. He didn’t look mad, just hesitant and curious. He did not seem like a man who was about to get up and pack his bags, so Sherlock allowed himself to relax, just a little. 

“The… others. Clients,” he said, when John looked none the wiser. 

“Clients? Our clients? No… but…  _ oh.” _

For a second, John looked surprised, and then… then he looked… it was hard for Sherlock to categorise. He looked like he had looked when one of Mrs. Hudson’s prize porcelain figurines had been accidentally smashed on the floor by a clumsy handyman - like he wanted to go back in time, catching all the little pieces and guiding them back into place to make the little trinket whole again. He was quiet for a while, eyes pinched and moving over Sherlock’s features - cheek, chin, nose, ear. 

Like he was looking for the cracks. 

“That’s… that’s alright,” he said, voice like a balm. “It’s alright, Sherlock.”

_ I know it’s alright, _ part of Sherlock wanted to snap - the proud, cold part, who needed nothing and no-one at all. 

The rest of him wanted to follow his still-held hand, dive into the space under John’s damp chin, and never come back out. 

“But you don’t have to be like that, with me,” John said, sniffing again, but his eyes clearing a little. “You got hurt because you were doing things you didn’t want to do…”

“I wasn’t…”

“And I was getting hurt because I was doing what I thought you wanted.”

Sherlock swallowed back his interruption, flabbergasted. 

“You… you thought I wanted?” he asked, unsure if he had heard correctly. 

_ “Yes, _ Sherlock,” John said, appearing more confident now. “I didn’t want to do those things either! I never wanted to tie you up, or… hurt you,” he mumbled the end, shame plain all over his expression. 

“But…” Sherlock paused, but at John’s encouraging nod he forced himself to keep going. “But… you bought…  _ things.” _

John sighed. 

“That was one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done,” he said regretfully. “I really thought that you were into all of that, and that you wanted me to be into it, too… but you’re not, are you? You’re not into that stuff.” 

After a pause, Sherlock slowly shook his head. 

_ “Christ,” _ John swore, eyes closing again. He stayed that way for a few moments, and, wondering at his own daring, Sherlock chanced freeing his thumb from John’s grip and stroking it up the side of John’s hand. 

John’s eyes opened, and he looked confused for a moment, until Sherlock made the movement again. He smiled then, but it was a sad smile. 

“You didn’t want to do it, then,” he said, like a man announcing a guilty sentence in a courtroom. “You didn’t want to be… intimate, with me.” 

“That’s not… no,” Sherlock tried, then ground his teeth, looking for the words. “It’s not that simple,” he said, and John looked thoughtful. “I did want to do a lot of those things...and...” he paused, trying to untangle his thoughts. “And the rest… I did want to… or at least... I wanted, to want to.”

John squeezed his hand, eyes red and wet again. He opened his mouth, but apparently could think of nothing to say, as he closed it and placed a soft kiss on the back of Sherlock’s hand instead. Sherlock frowned. 

Was that a kiss goodbye?

“John… please, I…”

“Shhh,” John said, kissing Sherlock’s hand again, and closed his eyes. Sherlock stared at the delicate lashes, wanted to prise them open and get at the thoughts beneath. 

John just breathed for a while, but his grip on Sherlock’s hand did not lessen. Sherlock was starting to feel cold, having edged out across the mattress and from under the blanket, the one hand his only remaining connection to John.

“I think… I think I’m still not understanding something, Sherlock,” John said finally, eyes still closed. “If I ask you about it, will you try to answer, and tell me the truth? For me?”

“I… of course I will,” Sherlock said softly. This was John. He would do anything for John. He was afraid though, that John was not going to like the answer… but then, he was still here…

“I asked you, before, if you wanted to do certain things, and you said yes - like the cuffs and the clamps… but you didn’t want to. Not really. Why didn’t you say no, Sherlock?”

John’s eyes opened then, and he fixed Sherlock with a clear blue stare, void of judgment, of expectations. 

John really did want to know. 

_ Follow John.  _

“Because…” Sherlock tried to swallow around the knot that was trying to block the words. “Because…  _ ‘no’ _ … it’s never… it didn’t  _ mean  _ anything. To others, before. Or…”

“Or?” John echoed, eyes still clear and calm, and now it was he stroking his thumb along the back of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock stared at that thumb, blocking out the rest of the room, the rest of his fear, as best he could. 

“Or… it meant, the end. The end of everything. And I thought… I thought that you wanted certain things, and if you didn’t get them…”

“What did you think I would do?” John asked. His face was still open, eyes still clear, but there was an undercurrent of shame returning now. 

“I didn’t think you would hurt me,” Sherlock said quickly. He left out that he had thought exactly that, for a short time when he had been on the kitchen table, because that was his lapse in judgement, not John’s. “I thought… I thought that you would leave.”

John’s eyes closed yet again, as if pained. 

“I haven’t done this before,” Sherlock said, suddenly  _ wanting  _ to be understood, so badly. “I’ve only done any of these things with… well. The wrong people, or because I needed… something. I haven’t ever done it just because… because  _ I wanted  _ someone. Someone of my own. And I’m sorry, I knew I would mess it all up, but I just hoped…”

“Can I hold you again?” John said abruptly. 

“I… what?” 

“I like cuddling with the people I care about,” John said, brushing his lips again against Sherlock’s hand, eyes still shut. “And… you’re so far away. Waking up with you, together… It was like a dream. The best dream.”

His eyes opened once more and wandered slowly over Sherlock’s features, but this time not like he was looking for the flaws - like he couldn’t believe Sherlock was there at all. 

“I was afraid too, Sherlock,” John went on. “I was so afraid that when you worked out how… how  _ boring  _ I really am, how inexperienced with men, with … toys… with all those things, I thought it was  _ you  _ who was going to leave  _ me.” _

Sherlock couldn’t help the soft gasp he made at that - because that was… that was… 

Ridiculous!

Impossible!

Sherlock couldn’t imagine ever leaving John Watson voluntarily - unless it was to save his life. 

“You’re not boring,” he said, sounding exactly as he felt - wrong-footed, bewildered, confused. 

John smiled a little. 

“I’m glad you think so,” he said quietly. “But I’m getting now that I don’t really know what you think about all this, not at all, until you  _ tell me _ … and even then, I’m not sure if you’re just telling me what I want to hear. I know that sounds harsh,” he said when Sherlock tried to interrupt, “but this whole thing has shown me… we have to be careful, you and I. Really careful. Because you won’t protect yourself… protect yourself from me, and not even from  _ you. _ And I am stupid enough to avoid asking difficult questions, because I’m afraid of the answer. So… so that’s my difficult question, Sherlock. I asked you last night, and you agreed, but you weren’t really yourself, so… can I hold you again? Now that you’re  _ you, _ and I’m  _ me _ … can we be,  _ us? _ Just, us, cuddling together? Because…” John had maintained such calm, Sherlock had been able to see the effort it cost him to get all those words out, but now his voice cracked, right along with Sherlock’s heart. “Because… I think I need it.”

Sherlock blinked back the moisture that had coated his eyelids, staring at John, his John, his conductor of light, his partner… his partner who needed something, now. But he found himself uncertain; he had told John that the physical side came easily to him - this goes here, that goes there - but he had no practice in this kind of physicality. How did you move from not cuddling, to cuddling? And what exactly did cuddling mean? Who was supposed to be holding whom? Did it lead somewhere? What were the expectations?

The moisture rose again, and he fidgeted in place, looking from John’s face to their joined hands. 

“Sherlock? We don’t have to… please tell me when you don’t want to do something…”

“It’s not that,” he said, and had to sniff in order to not make a total fool of himself. He could see that John was getting upset again as well. “I do want to, really,  _ I do. _ It’s just… I don’t… I don’t  _ know how.” _

“Oh, _ love,” _ John said, and Sherlock remembered hearing that from last night, sometime. Had that really been John? “Come here,” John said, and he tugged lightly on Sherlock’s hand, turning on his back so Sherlock was forced to slide closer. John's other arm snuck under his torso, curled around his back, and guided him into place. There was a moment of confusion about whose leg would go where, but eventually they seemed to find a position where all their limbs were comfortable. Sherlock’s front was pressed against John’s side, his face partially resting on John’s shoulder. Was this how they had been sleeping? Was this how other people slept?

The wall of tears he had so valiantly been fighting off returned with a vengeance, and he swallowed thickly, tired of all the emotions. He just wanted to sleep, sleep here if possible, with John’s ribs against his heart, John’s hand against his back. He sniffed again, trying to keep it quiet, but the hand still holding his, gave another squeeze. 

“It’s alright if you don’t know how to do some things,” John whispered into his forehead, stopping to place a soft kiss there that only served to bring on more tears. “Because, I’ll teach you, OK? You can teach me, and I can teach you. Can we try that, love?” 

Sherlock nodded, mute, pressing his wet face into John’s shirt. He decided to take a chance - as John was already taking so many. He pulled his hand out of John’s grip, who released it immediately, then snuck it over John’s chest and around to the other side of his ribcage, and squeezed. He squeezed with his legs, too, trying desperately to show John that yes, yes, they could try that. Sherlock could try that, for John. 

_ Follow John. _

John sighed as if Sherlock was squeezing all the air out of him, and then his mouth was back, resting against Sherlock’s forehead as he squeezed Sherlock back, hands firm but gentle. 

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he said reverently, and there was another brief forehead kiss that made Sherlock’s insides melt. “I think we could both do with a bit more sleep, yeah?”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, easing off on his hold slightly, but remaining fixed up against John’s body. The tears had stopped, but he felt like he had run a mile - as if that’s how far the patch of space on the mattress between him and John had really been.

John didn’t say anything else, just held Sherlock close, strong and safe, until Sherlock fell back to sleep. 

****************************************

John was starting to sit up the next time Sherlock woke, groggy and confused. 

“I have an idea,” John said, and then he was guiding Sherlock to sit up as well. He kept his arms around Sherlock’s chest, so that their faces were still close together, and Sherlock blinked at him, blearily. “It’s past lunchtime, so how about this,” John went on. “We both change into something more comfortable, I order us in some takeaway, we move over to the couch, and we just stay there all day. We can watch crap telly, we can curl up together under the blanket, you can shout at the shows and I can tell you off for spoiling the endings. What do you think?”

He sounded so hopeful, but it didn’t help to dispel Sherlock’s confusion. 

“That’s… don’t you have to work?”

“Nope, I messaged them already. I’m all yours for the next three days.”

_ Three days? _

What were they possibly going to do for three days?

John must have more in mind than… than  _ curling up on the couch, _ no matter how lovely that sounded to Sherlock. 

“You’re thinking again,” John said, one hand coming up to move an errant curl from off Sherlock’s face. He realized he must look a state, having slept in his clothes and cried all over the place. He flushed, instinctively looking down and away. “Hey,” John said, rubbing his back a couple of times. “We’re going to try teaching each other, remember? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock took in a deep breath. 

“You want to… you want to just… be together? Doing nothing, really?” he asked, dragging his eyes up to John’s face. John looked just as rumpled and out of it as Sherlock felt, which made him feel a bit better. 

“Yup,” John confirmed with a smile, finding more curls to try and tease back into place. Sherlock closed his eyes, loving the sensations. Everyone was always so rough with his hair - he tried not to let on how sensitive his scalp was because it just became another weapon. They always found out though. 

“Why?” he asked, word formed and out of his mouth before he could stop it. 

John’s hand stilled, and Sherlock opened his eyes again. 

“Why?” John repeated, confused. “Why… why do I want to spend time with you?”

Nowhere to hide now, Sherlock nodded. John stared at him for a moment, then his hand slipped to the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him close, so Sherlock’s cheek ended up resting against his collarbone. 

“Because I like spending time with you, you git,” John said, with deep affection but also a deep sadness. “I like listening to you, laughing with you, hearing your theories and your jokes and all the things in your head that make you,  _ you. _ And I want to have you close to me, today, because I… I need it. I want to know you’re alright.” 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said automatically, voice muffled against John’s chest. 

“I think our definitions of ‘fine’ are very different, love,” John said, a hint of amusement in his tone. “In any case - I’m  _ not _ alright. It’s not your fault, and I’ll be better soon, but I’m not alright, and I don’t think you are either. Let’s just have a day to ourselves. You and me, ignoring the rest of the world.”

It did sound nice. 

Sherlock nodded, and pulled back. John smiled at him, then gave him a nudge towards the bathroom door. “You go shower and get into the most slob-like clothes you own, yeah? The aim of today is to be as comfortable as it is possible for a human being to be. I’ll clean up in there, and order the food.”

_ Clean up in there… _

John was going to get rid of the collar. Clever, kind John. 

_ Follow John. _

Sherlock nodded, and for the first time in a long time, started to feel hopeful. 

***********************************

The ‘day of slobbing’ as John had dubbed it was proceeding well. At least, Sherlock thought it was. John had ordered far too much food, and insisted on serving little bits from each dish onto Sherlock’s plate, which Sherlock was trying to balance on the tangle of knees in front of him. After John had showered, he had found Sherlock hovering uncertainly in the living room, then grabbed him and pulled him down onto the couch so that Sherlock had had no choice but to follow. He was soon pressed against John’s side again, cushions wedged into the mix too, legs crossed and interlocking with John’s so he wasn’t sure which leg was which until he moved one of them. John had only parted from Sherlock to dash downstairs for their food, then he had been back, squirreling his way back into the space he had left - getting Sherlock back into his arms. 

John seemed to be treating him almost like… almost like he was sick? Or like he thought Sherlock was recovering from something? Sherlock didn’t have much experience with this, either. His parents, though lovely people, had not known how to deal with their snappish and spiky second child. When Mycroft had dug Sherlock out of whatever drug den he had found him in that month, he had handed over the ‘caring’ part to trained and distant professionals. In adulthood, Sherlock had always taken himself away and out of sight when he wasn’t feeling well - affection becoming something in his mind to be traded, never given freely. 

But here they were, and John was overflowing with free and easy affection, so much so that Sherlock didn’t know what to do with it all. If he concentrated too much - on the physical contact, the food, the doting look on John’s face, how  _ happy  _ John was… Sherlock was going to be crying all over again, and he really didn’t want to do that. 

John… John liked him. John called him… John had a word he kept using, for Sherlock. John thought that he was someone worth spending time with, and there didn’t seem to be any expectation that Sherlock do anything in return - aside from be himself. 

John thought that Sherlock was  _ good. _

The item secreted away in Sherlock’s jacket, still folded over the wooden chair from the previous evening, proved it wasn’t true. 

“Alright, another episode?” John asked, credits rolling to a murder-mystery show that Sherlock hadn’t paid much attention to. If John had noticed his lack of ‘shouting and spoiling the ending’, he hadn’t mentioned it. Sherlock started to nod in agreement… then remembered he wasn’t supposed to do that anymore. He was supposed to be honest about what he wanted, what he needed, just like John was being. 

Why did it have to be so  _ hard? _

He shook his head, and John clicked the TV off and turned to him with a questioning look. 

“I think… I think I have to tell you something,” Sherlock said, fighting his instincts to pull away from John and get to a safe distance. 

“Hey. You don’t have to tell me anything,” John said, misunderstanding. 

“No, I… I know. I mean… I think I  _ need  _ to tell you something,” Sherlock said, looking down at the blanket. 

“OK…” John asked, and Sherlock let his weight lean more heavily against him. John’s arm immediately came up around his shoulders, and Sherlock was torn between allowing himself to feel comforted, or not. John hadn’t said he was staying. Sherlock knew it was implied, as John had mentioned his fear was that  _ Sherlock  _ would leave… but still. Could John really hear what he was going to say next, and just… be OK with it?

He found everything that was going on today ...strange - he wanted it, wanted it with a fierceness that he didn’t often allow himself to dwell on - but it was all somehow a little bit frightening. To have what he really wanted, without knowing how long it might last. Was it better to lay everything out now, and let John decide to stay or go? Was he just trying to push John away out of confusion?

He didn’t know, and he was sick of not-knowing. But Sherlock Holmes was not known from shirking away from the difficult things.

“I… yesterday. Before I came back and… and everything happened. I went somewhere. Somewhere… not good,” he said, hoping John would fill in the blanks so he didn’t have to. 

“Are you alright?” John asked immediately, voice laced with concern. “Are you hurt?” 

Sherlock paused. That was… that was not the reaction he expected, at all. 

“I’m fine,” he said, and John snorted from beside him. 

“Fine like, ‘I’m happy and healthy’, or fine like, ‘it doesn’t matter because I’m still alive’?” John asked, with a touch of his old sarcasm.

“Fine like… I’m not hurt.” Sherlock settled on. 

“Well that’s good,” John said, releasing a breath. “Want to tell me more?” 

Sherlock nodded, then gathered his thoughts as he twisted the blanket in his hands. 

“I thought… I thought you might want to do some things together, that I wasn’t going to… be able to do. Wasn’t going to be able to do properly, I mean. So, I went and met up with someone who could sell me something… to help.” John’s grip on his shoulder tightened. 

“You bought… you bought medicine from someone?” John asked carefully. Strange he was calling it ‘medicine’ - he had said the word ‘drugs’ to Sherlock plenty of times before. Sherlock nodded anyway. “You didn’t need to do that, love,” John said, and then he moved their positions around a little so Sherlock was resting fully against his chest. “You need to understand something, OK? I don’t care if we never have sex again - I mean it. I don’t care if all the touching you want to do is this - just this, sometimes. I just want you to be happy. You don’t need to take any… chemicals, or do anything else, to … perform.”

Sherlock frowned. Ignoring for a while the startling pronouncement that John would be willing to go without sex (or was it just he was going to find it somewhere else?), he focused on the last word and…  _ oh. _

“I didn’t go buy viagra, John,” Sherlock said, feeling himself start to blush and wishing he didn’t need to do this. “I don’t have any issue in that… area. I just don’t  _ like  _ it.” He waited for the questions, the disbelief, the erasure.

“OK,” John said agreeably. 

“OK?” Sherlock asked with some incredulity, after waiting for more and hearing nothing. 

“Yes,” John said, the word vibrating through Sherlock’s back. “You don’t like it. Fair enough.”

Sherlock found he had nothing to say to that, so surprised was he. 

“You went and bought something though,” John said, musing. Then, “Oh. Not medicine.” His arms came around Sherlock’s waist, and Sherlock settled onto the couch between his thighs. John reached around and pulled the blanket back up over them from where it was slipping down. 

“No. Not medicine,” Sherlock agreed quietly, then pushed on, needing to get it out. “Heroin.”

The word hung in the air, real and ugly, an intruder on the calm atmosphere that John had been trying to create for them. John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Can you tell me why?” he asked, still calm, somehow. 

Sherlock sighed. It had seemed so clear when he had woken up the previous day. He had been trying everything he could think of to get himself back to the trance-like meditative state that he needed to be in, if he was ever going to have proper sex with John. Meditation, sleep deprivation, he had even smoked a joint with Mrs. Hudson - none of it had worked. He had thought that maybe the only thing he could do was sink back into the pit that he had crawled out of years ago - because he used to be able to do this, back then. Used to be able to let men use his body as they pleased. Maybe he just wasn’t meant to be sober - maybe that was how to fix a broken person. 

He had sought out one of his old contacts, and it had been ridiculously easy to do. It had been a strange, smug moment to tell the man that he was paying with cash - his own cash, that he had earned while doing something he was good at - but you shouldn’t be smug when you’re out buying heroin, should you? Supposedly not good… but who even knew anymore?

Then he had rushed back to the flat, hoping to get to his room to hide the evidence before John noticed anything amiss - but John, or not-John had been waiting for him, and he hadn’t got that far. 

Sherlock realised that John was still waiting for an answer. 

“I thought I needed it,” he whispered. John hummed from beside his ear. 

“Needed it for what?” 

“Needed it so… so I wouldn’t… so… ugh. It’s hard to explain,” Sherlock said, frustrated. 

“We have the time,” John said, ever so patient, so Sherlock tried to marshall his thoughts. John was still there after all. 

“Sometimes, when I have sex, I just sort of… let go,” he said quietly. “Let go of what’s happening, and let the other person take over. It’s easier… I don’t feel so stressed, and the other person gets what they want.” 

“What about what you want?” John asked, hands finding Sherlock’s on Sherlock’s belly and linking their hands together. 

“What I want isn’t… it’s not enough.” John hummed again at that, not pushing, just… waiting. 

“Anyway, recently, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let go, like I used to, and I wanted you to be happy so I knew I had to find a way to make it happen.”

“So you were going to get high before we had sex?” John asked, voice like the placid sea. 

“I… I hadn’t fully decided, I think. I don’t know.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” John said softly, breath tickling Sherlock’s ear. 

“So am I,” Sherlock agreed, and John sort of…  _ nuzzled  _ the side of his head on hearing that. 

“Why did you tell me about this, love?” John asked. 

“It’s still here,” Sherlock said, releasing it like a poisonous cloud from his lungs. “It’s still here, in my jacket pocket. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” John said, but he started to push Sherlock forwards. Sherlock turned, ready to apologise again, but John was smiling. “You are so strong, Sherlock. So,  _ so _ strong.” He pulled his legs back then put them on the floor, standing up. “But I want to help, now. What do you need me to do?” 

Sherlock stared up at him, wondering when he was going to stop being surprised today. 

“I need… I need you to get rid of it,” he said, and John’s hand came up and carded through his hair in response. John leaned forward, kissing Sherlock right in the middle of his forehead. 

“Of course,” he said softly, and then he pulled away, heading for the jacket. He fished around inside it, then the baggie was there, in his hand, out in the open. “I’m going to flush it,” John said decisively. “Do you want to watch me do that?” 

Sherlock hesitated, but then realized if he didn’t watch, he would be wondering if it really happened. He stood as well, and John linked their hands together and led him to the bathroom. John didn’t ask Sherlock if he wanted to do it - for which Sherlock was glad, because this was hard enough. Without ceremony, but making sure Sherlock could see, John opened the little bag, lifted the toilet seat lid, and emptied it out. Then he pulled the flush and moved to the sink, rinsing the little bag thoroughly with soap and water. He flushed the toilet again for good measure, dropping the wet bag into the trash. He did it with such efficient professionalism, there was no real time for Sherlock to have an emotional response to it. The drugs were there, and then… they weren’t. 

“Better?” John asked simply. 

“Better,” Sherlock agreed, and then John was hugging him, and it  _ was  _ better. 

************************

“What do you say to coming with me to see Ella tomorrow?” John asked. It was late evening, and Sherlock had just yawned for the fifth time. Apparently his exhaustion had not been completely erased with their day on the couch. He vaguely remembered John saying something about getting help, help for them to communicate better, but he couldn’t recall the details. “I sent her a message earlier,” John confessed, “and she has an opening tomorrow morning, but if it’s too much too soon then…”

“No,” Sherlock said, and he reached out and grabbed John’s hand from where it was fidgeting with the remote control. “No, it’s… I’ll go.” He knew that if he was going to continue on this path with John, this learning from each other, that it was going to be incredibly hard. Some help would definitely be appreciated, and he knew John felt comfortable with Ella. 

_ Follow John. _

“That’s good,” John said happily, and then he put the remote down. “I’m beat - think it’s time for me to sleep. Do you want me to go back upstairs?”

“If you want to,” Sherlock said without thinking, but John only tilted his head, smiling. “I mean… you can sleep in my room, if you want.” John beamed at him. 

“I do want,” John said, getting up off the couch and heading towards the bathroom. “I’ll see you in there, OK?”

“OK,” Sherlock called, but as soon as the bathroom door closed, anxiety surged up through his stomach. He had told John that he didn’t really like sex - or at least, parts of sex. And John had seemed to accept that, had said he didn’t care if they never had sex again. But… but John  _ liked  _ sex. Sherlock knew that now from first-hand experience, and going to bed with someone, even if you intended to sleep, there was an expectation of sex of some kind, right? Sherlock couldn’t initiate more kissing and cuddles if he wasn’t willing to go through with it to the end - that wasn’t fair, and he would understand why someone would get angry for being led on. 

Maybe… maybe better to sleep on opposite sides of the bed, then? They could be close, and Sherlock would be able to hear John, sense him being in there. He just had to hold off on reaching for him, that was all - and he had plenty of practice at that. 

“I’m done,” John called, and Sherlock startled as he realized how much time had passed. He got up off the couch and turned off the lights, then went to use the bathroom and brush his teeth. He would just get in the bed on whatever the opposite side to John was, he reasoned. 

But when he went into his bedroom, he saw the flaw in this plan. John was basically right in the middle of the bed, smiling up at him, and holding the covers open. Sherlock hesitated then, unsure. He did want to cuddle more with John, maybe even kiss, if it was now allowed, but… he just didn’t know if he could handle anything more… and there was no way to predict what John wanted, exactly… 

“Just ask me, love,” John said, stalling Sherlock’s thoughts in their tracks. 

Just… just  _ ask me? _

Sherlock took a few steps towards the bed. 

“Do you want… what do you want?” he asked, forcing his hands not to fidget. 

“I want to cuddle for a bit, sleep next to you, and wake up next to you,” John said, smiling. 

“And… and?” Sherlock asked, taking another step. John’s smile turned a bit melancholy. 

“And nothing, Sherlock. No sex. No handjobs, no blowjobs, no touching anywhere below the waist. Just like we’ve been doing today. I mean it - we never have to do those things again.  _ Never.”  _

Sherlock frowned, and sat on the side of the bed. 

“But… you like those things,” he said, cautiously. 

“And you don’t,” John said, as if that ended the conversation. 

“That’s not… that’s not entirely true.”

“OK - well that’s all something we can explore, sometime later. Maybe Ella can help us work out how to talk about that, hmm?” John asked, and he patted the mattress beside him. Still frowning, Sherlock moved so he could slide under the covers next to him, John’s fingers immediately lacing between his own. 

“You don’t want to talk about that with Ella?” John asked, once Sherlock had turned out the light. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said, then bit the inside of his cheek. “Or… not fine, but… useful, probably. But I know what she’s going to say.” 

“Oh?”

“She’s going to say I need to work on it, sex is a normal healthy drive, my responses are based on trauma… I’ve heard it all before.”

John scooted a little closer. 

“Heard it from who?”

“Therapists, psychiatrists. People at rehab centers. People I’ve… people I’ve slept with.” Sherlock said, turning onto his side to face John. The day spent in such close proximity with him, how calm and considerate he had been the whole time… Sherlock knew his defenses were lowering, but he couldn’t yet decide if that was a good thing. 

“And what do you think?” John asked. 

_ What do you think? _ Asked, just like that. Like it wasn’t the first time Sherlock could remember anyone ever asking him that, in the context of his… peculiarities. Like it was a normal and valid question. 

“I think… I think I’ve always been this way,” Sherlock said, passing the words through the air to the only person he had ever trusted in this way. “There’s always been something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” John said immediately, but Sherlock couldn’t accept those words in return for his own. He let them lay next to him, on his pillow. John seemed to understand. 

“So… you said, we don’t have to do those things…” Sherlock trailed off.

“We don’t,” John said firmly. Sherlock appreciated the repetition, but he wished he could get John to see that it wasn’t quite so black and white. 

“OK… but… but does that mean that you’ll… you’ll look for those things…”

“With someone else?” John asked, and this was not one of his calm questions. He sounded faintly repulsed, with a face to match - at least the little of it that Sherlock could make out in the dark. “No, Sherlock. I don’t want to be with anyone else. I just want to be with you - have since the moment we met, if I’m honest. I don’t need those things.” 

“That’s not realistic,” Sherlock said, wondering at his own bravado. Perhaps it was the lack of light, or the feeling that just maybe, he might know more about this than John. John sighed. 

“That’s… OK. That’s fair, I guess. You’ve only known me as this… this serial dater. But the whole time I was serving, Sherlock, I didn’t have sex once. Yeah, I thought about it. Some of the others were sleeping around with the locals, or with each other.... But I just wanted to do my job, and survive. I didn’t need it.”

“I don’t want you to just ‘survive’,” Sherlock muttered, punching his pillow and settling a little closer to John. Their knees were touching now, and John’s arm came up and over his waist. 

“I know, Sherlock. But do you understand, I feel the same way about you? I don’t want you to just  _ survive  _ either. I want you to be happy.”

“I  _ am  _ happy,” Sherlock protested.

“Again, I think our definitions of a word are vastly different,” John said, drawing Sherlock a little closer. 

Sherlock felt like grinding his teeth. ‘Happy’ was all very well, for other people. But life didn’t always work that way. He wasn’t sure he even understood what most people meant by the term. 

“I just want to be with you,” Sherlock said, and it came out sounding… sounding like  _ him. _ Grousing, petulant, teasing. Like he used to sound, when he and John had been  _ he and John, _ running through the streets of London, without worrying over how the other was going to react to something. Even he could hear the difference, and he felt his ears burn with it. 

Even though the darkness, he saw John grin. 

“And you will be, Sherlock,” he said, mollifying. “Because I’m not going to go anywhere. We’re in this together, you and me. OK?”

_ I’m not going to go anywhere… _

Sherlock felt the last little knot of tension under his sternum give a rattle, and release. 

“OK,” he said, and rested his head on John’s shoulder. 

**********************************

The session with Ella had been… intense. Though she stressed it was introductory, she also seemed to realize that the two of them needed some practical help, and quickly. Once she had realized that they were both willing to be truthful, her questions had been efficient, and to the point. 

“Sherlock, what would help you to feel secure in this relationship, right now?”

Sherlock had felt a bit stumped at that. John had said he wasn’t going anywhere, and that was all he really cared about… wasn’t it? It had been the motivation behind everything he had done, everything he had agreed to, for the past few weeks. Stop John from leaving. There wasn’t anything else… was there?

“He told me he isn't going to leave…” he said, and Ella nodded, gesturing for him to continue. “That even if we don’t have sex anymore, he wants to be with me.” 

“That’s good, Sherlock,” Ella said, nodding and making a note. “And John, it was good of you to make that clear to Sherlock as well.” Sherlock noted that John seemed uncomfortable receiving the praise, like he wasn’t used to it. “But Sherlock, relationships do end, sometimes. We can hope that it won’t happen, but there needs to be a motivation other than that, while you are together.” She had obviously noted at that point that Sherlock was a little lost. “We can come back to this in a future session, but I want you to think about it - what else do you need, in this relationship? Aside from John to agree to stay. What can he do to make you feel happy, and safe?”

She had moved on to asking John some questions then, and Sherlock was ashamed later that he hadn’t followed along. What could John do to make Sherlock happy? Sherlock  _ was  _ happy, that was the point. He had told John that, told Ella that, but it was like they didn’t believe him. And feel safe? John had said he would stay, and Sherlock was trying to trust him. What more was there to ask for?

“Sherlock, before our time is up for today, I want to give you some reading material to take home,” Ella said, bringing him back to himself. She went to her filing cabinets and rummaged around, while John reached over to take Sherlock’s hand. He squeezed it, and Sherlock squeezed back. Ella returned with two small pamphlets and a larger booklet. “Actually, once you have read them, John I think you should take a look as well. One is a pamphlet about trauma, and our responses to it. I think that’s a direction worth exploring, perhaps in a future session just for you. The second is about a support group we have - I know you might not feel ready to join something like that, I just want you to know it exists. It’s a group of former and current sex workers; the people there know exactly what it’s like to have those experiences as part of your history.” Sherlock flushed.  _ Sex worker? _ He hadn’t been… a sex worker. He had just… found a way to get what he needed, that’s all. It wasn’t like it was a defining part of his life, and he didn’t do it anymore… John squeezed his hand again, and he realized he was staring blankly at the bundle of papers that Ella was extending to him. 

He took it, fingers tingling, and Ella gave him one of her compassionate smiles. 

“The third one is produced by AVEN; the Asexual Visibility and Education Network. It has descriptions of the different sexualities defined under the umbrella of asexuality, and the challenges that asexual people often face. I think you’ll find it a useful starting point for our discussions.” 

Sherlock looked at the cover of the booklet - it was black, grey, white and purple, with an upside down triangle in the middle. Sherlock understood the individual words Ella had said, but not the real meaning…  _ umbrella of asexuality? _ He nodded anyway, folding the papers slightly to fit them into his jacket pocket. 

They had booked another session for the following week, and then they were out in the daylight on a Monday morning, with nowhere to be and nothing they needed to do. 

“Want to go for ice cream?” John asked, out of nowhere. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and John laughed. “What can I say - sometimes I come to therapy, and go for ice cream afterwards. It’s kind of my thing. Want to come?”

So off they had gone. John had led Sherlock to a nearby ice cream parlor that had never particularly registered on Sherlock’s internal map, then ordered some outrageously messy concoction that was served in a tall glass with two spoons. Sherlock stared from it, to John, and back. 

“Something you didn’t know about me, hmm?” John said, still all amusement. 

“I think there’s a lot I don’t know about you, John,” Sherlock said, reaching for a spoon with some trepidation. The fruit on top of the whipped cream was already beginning a downward slide for freedom. 

“And there’s a lot I don’t know about you, too,” John said, play-fighting with Sherlock’s spoon for a second to nap a piece of peach. Sherlock pulled his spoon back, nonplussed. 

How had he ended up here, eating an ice-cream sundae, on a Monday morning, with the love of his life?

Was this… 

This was…

“This is a date,” he stated, almost dropping his spoon. 

John nodded. 

“A little unconventional - not all dates start with couple’s therapy… though maybe they should,” he mused, going back for another piece of fruit.

“You brought me on a date,” Sherlock said, spoon still dangerously close to falling out of his hand. 

“Yup,” said John, mercifully not acknowledging how Sherlock was stating the obvious. “That’s one of the things couples do, you know.”

_ Couples.  _

John continued to eat, shooting little smiles at Sherlock, until Sherlock spotted the last piece of peach - and decided to fight him for it. 

************************************************************

“What’s your idea of a perfect date?” John asked once they were back in bed that evening. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, not really understanding the question. 

“If you could plan the perfect date for us, what would we do?”

Sherlock blinked into the darkness. 

“...solve a murder?”

John chuckled. It made Sherlock’s head wobble from its position on his chest, and he smiled despite himself. 

“OK, but that’s work, that’s not… I’m asking what we can do for fun, outside of cases and murders…”

“And ice cream?”

“And ice cream, yes,” John said, and he ruffled Sherlock’s hair. “Ice cream is all well and good, but it’s something I wanted to do and you came along. What’s something you want to do? Or… OK imagine we are meeting to go on a date for the first time. How would it go?”

A sudden vision of flowers appeared in Sherlock’s mind. 

“I don’t know,” he said instead, but John gave him a playful jab in the arm. 

“I think you do,” John said, tone light, but continued, “... and it’s OK if you don’t want to tell me. But I’d love to know. Really.”

Sherlock rolled off his chest and squinted at him through the gloom. 

“You… you won’t laugh?” he asked, hating himself for feeling this insecure. The hand came back to his hair, and his eyes slipped closed with a sigh. 

“I won’t laugh.”

“Well… you’d… you’d be dressed up - maybe in that dark blue suit, the one you never wear… and you’d come to the door, and you’d… you’d have flowers… and we’d go for a walk in the park together… we’d sit on one of the benches. We’d watch the people - I’d deduce them, and you’d laugh… and people would see us, sitting there, together. And then later we’d come back here, and be like this.”

John’s hand didn’t stop carding through Sherlock’s hair. 

“Sounds lovely,” John said, his tone a bit dreamy. “And completely doable. You’re on.” 

“Hmm? What?” Sherlock said, rousing himself from his hair-massage induced stupor. 

“I said - you’re on. What’s your favorite flower?”

“John…” Sherlock said, feeling a little mortified. 

“What? You think I’m above buying my boyfriend flowers? Have you  _ met  _ me?”

Sherlock pushed his head into John’s side, face burning. 

“If you’re not going to tell me, I’m going to guess - and I’m bound to get the wrong ones, so you should probably just own-up,” John said conversationally. Sherlock whacked him lightly on the chest, pushing his face even harder against his body, feeling the flush spreading down his neck and onto his chest. “No?” John said, and it was light, and teasing and Sherlock realized this hot feeling wasn’t all mortification… he felt… pleased… “Ah well, when I come back with… I dunno, daffodils or something, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

The next morning, Sherlock woke up to a vase full of sunflowers, right there on his bedside table. They were huge, and bright, and real. John was watching him from the bedroom doorway, still wearing his outside clothes, but when Sherlock reached out both arms for him he quickly shucked his shoes and jumper and was back where he belonged - by Sherlock’s side. 

***************************

It was another day before Sherlock felt like looking at the written material from Ella. Things seemed to be going so well with John - he felt… calm. Peaceful. Moving around the flat, looking at his blog, it was all a bit easier again, not so weighted down and ...grey. The bright yellow of the sunflowers had leached out into the rest of the world somehow, bringing back all the other colours with them.

John was bustling about in the kitchen, cooking something up for their lunch. He would be going back to work the following day, and to Sherlock’s surprise he had already planned out what he was going to do with his own day. The panic that John might go and not come back was dwindling - he really did seem content with their relationship the way it was. Sherlock however wasn’t one hundred percent content - because he knew the grey area of sex and intimacy still needed to be addressed. Maybe it was better to wait for the safety of Ella’s office to get into the discussion, but he at least should try and be prepared in advance. 

He read over the pamphlet on trauma first. He had read similar things, but always in regards to cases - victims and suspects and trying to puzzle out why they did the things they did. He hadn’t ever tried to apply it to himself, and it was a novel experience. There was a section on carrying trauma in your body, and even reading it made the skin around his neck tingle in remembrance. That was something he should probably tell John about, one day, he thought, and tucked the first pamphlet under the rest. The second, he only briefly looked at - because Ella was right, he wasn’t ready. Logically, he knew that by the definition of sex-work that that was what he had been doing - and for years, not just briefly. It had been his main source of income, main socialization, how he got food and shelter and drugs and information… but… he just couldn’t go down that road, not yet. He didn’t know if he would ever want to. 

The final thing was the booklet on asexuality, and he frowned on it. He of course knew about asexual reproduction in biology, but as a sexuality? He had never heard of it. Looking at the contents page, there were already a variety of terms he had never come across: demisexual, fraysexual, graysexual… he paused, glancing over to make sure John was still busy, then settled in to read properly. Not knowing where to start, he turned the page to the introduction. 

“Asexuality means the absence of sexual attraction. It is not the same as celibacy, having a low libido, or performance anxiety. It is not a medical condition, a physical dysfunction, a mental condition, or something to be fixed. Asexual people may be sex-positive, sex-neutral, or sex-repulsed. They may feel romantic attraction to one or multiple genders, or they may feel none. They may find some people aesthetically pleasing, enjoy the physical sensations of touch - or neither of these things. They are a wide and varied group, but one thing that ties these people together is that they never, or rarely, feel sexual attraction - and that they are completely valid in their sexuality. Asexual people are whole, there is nothing missing, they are not broken. If you have ever felt this way about your thoughts and feelings in regards to sex, then please know that you are not alone. You are not the only one. There is nothing wrong with you. We are here, and we are with you.”

Time seemed to have frozen as Sherlock stared at the page, uncomprehending. He read it again, and then a third time. He closed the booklet, staring hard at the cover, waiting for… for it to burst into flames, or… or say something else, something he could understand, because… because if this was real, if this was true…

He started flipping through the pages, reading isolated sentences almost at random. “Asexual people are more likely to suffer physical and emotional abuse in relationships… the issue of so-called ‘corrective rape’ has still yet to be tackled properly… asexual people are likely to suffer from depression, anxiety, and have a relatively high rate of suicide… some asexual people enjoy sex for the closeness it brings with their partners… it is not impossible for asexual people to maintain loving, healthy relationships… asexual people can love as fiercely and with as much devotion as anyone else… it is currently estimated that at least five percent of the population is asexual...”

He couldn’t read anymore, because his hands were shaking and his head was pounding. He tried to take a breath, but it was too shallow, and he gripped the booklet until his fingers went white. The exhale made a noise, and he didn’t recognize it for what it was - a cry, a cry of pain, of disbelief. 

John did, though. He was there in a second, standing next to Sherlock’s chair, pulling his head gently to rest against John’s stomach. Sherlock dropped the booklet onto the table, raising both hands to his mouth and feeling like he was going to be sick. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, what is it? Talk to me, love?” John’s hand was once again carding through his hair, the other cupping the back of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock was able to breathe again, a little. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable yet to reply, moisture making two blotches on John’s shirt. “OK,” John soothed, and they stayed in that position for some time, until Sherlock was sure he wasn’t going to vomit all over John’s shoes. “Can you come and sit on the couch with me?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded, feeling very tired all of a sudden. He got up, and went with John to the couch, where John immediately arranged them so he was back between John’s legs and arms. He heaved a great sigh then, feeling like he might drop right off to sleep. 

“You read something bad?” John asked, lips by Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock shrugged. Bad? No… not … not bad. World-ending. Reading that booklet was like taking a meteor hit. The Sherlock Holmes that had existed before reading it, and the one sitting on the couch now, were two completely different people, and Sherlock was still shaking with the surprised effort of the rebirth. 

“Can you tell me?” John asked. He was definitely worried, and Sherlock couldn’t have that. 

“I… I never knew, any of that,” he tried, and as soon as he said it he knew how dangerously close he was to absolutely sobbing. He was so tired of crying so much, of feeling so much - it seemed there was no end to it. John heard it, and he rocked them slightly in place. 

“Shhh, it’s OK, love. You can tell me later. It’s OK.”

“It’s not OK,” Sherlock said, suddenly angry. “It’s not OK!” John remained silent. “It’s not… it’s not fair!” Sherlock said then, and it didn’t come out as angry as he hoped: it was more of a wail, like a child would make. “I didn’t… I didn’t know, no-one ever told me! Why didn’t somebody  _ tell me?” _

“Tell you what?” John said, voice soothing in the storm building behind Sherlock’s eyes. 

“That… that… that I’m not  _ broken! _ I’m not… not a freak! I’m not  _ alone!” _ He was really crying now, great globs of tears breaking over the dam, the dam that was finally coming down. 

“Oh,  _ Sherlock. _ Of course you’re not, of course you’re not broken…” 

Sherlock shook his head, taking great, gasping breaths against the upset. 

“No… no, you don’t  _ understand _ … my whole life… my whole  _ LIFE  _ I’ve been told there’s something wrong with me, I’m not complete, I’m… I’m  _ worthless, _ because… because I didn’t want what other people wanted. And I believed it John.  _ I believed it. _ And I… I did so many things because I believed it… I can’t even tell you the awful things I’ve done, because I thought… I thought I  _ had to, _ to be  _ normal! _ I thought it was only me! And now… if it’s not true… then… then that means  _ I never had to do it, _ any of it!”

It was a while before he came back to himself. He had turned, the side of his face pressed against John’s chest, his heartbeat a steady thumping under his ear. John was stroking his back, his other hand holding the back of Sherlock’s head. He felt… safe. Cared for. Wanted.

Loved. 

He swallowed, and rubbed his hand over his face. It felt gritty. 

“Hey,” John said from above. Sherlock braced his arms on the side of the couch, and sat up to look at him. 

“Hi,” he offered. 

“Feeling better?”

“I… I have no idea.” John looked sympathetic, and Sherlock had a sudden realization. 

“The dinner! Oh, I’m sorry John…” 

“Stop that,” John said, literally shushing him with one fingertip. “It’s food - we’ll order. You are my priority, Sherlock.  _ You  _ \- nothing else.” The fingertip traveled up to wipe at the salt under Sherlock’s eyes. “And I’m so sorry that these things have happened to you - that people said these things to you. I wish I’d been there, I wish I’d  _ seen  _ you, sooner.”

“You do see me, John,” Sherlock said, and he mirrored the action to trace under John’s eyes too. 

“I think I do, now,” John agreed, continuing to trace the contours of Sherlock’s face, touch soft. Sherlock felt something lighting up wherever it went - like the tail of a comet. Sherlock moved his hand over John’s face as well - traced his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the soft skin at his temples. How little he had known this man a week ago - really  _ known him.  _

Maybe part of John had been reborn, too. 

He traced his fingers over John’s lips. “Can I kiss you?” he whispered, ever-so afraid of the answer. John looked surprised for a moment. 

“Yes,” he said, a mere exhale, and then Sherlock was kissing him like he was drowning, and John was the air. John’s hands wrapped around him, pulling him close as their lips chased each other; John’s lips chasing away the desolation and despair. He searched with his tongue, and on finding John’s waiting, he groaned into the kiss, all at once too much, and not enough. John stroked his tongue with his own, hands splayed against his back, then somehow John took control so the pace wasn’t quite as desperate. It became more exploratory, easier to manage, and Sherlock felt his rabbiting pulse begin to even back out. They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, lips asking and answering, apologising and forgiving, until Sherlock felt his equilibrium return. 

This was John. He was Sherlock. None of that had changed, no matter how much it might have felt like it. Sherlock and John, together. 

He would be alright. 

****************************

It was a few weeks later. Sherlock had been looking into asexuality with the single-mindedness that he reserved for cases, because he realized that this was a case - the case of him, of Sherlock Holmes. John had helped as he always did when the game was on - looking through the evidence with him, casting things in a new light, calming him down when he was about to rocket out of his own skin with over-exposure and his drive to understand. John had even got him more resources - websites and books and podcasts and YouTube channels, and Sherlock ate it all up, the hunger for more never abating. He wondered if it ever would - and if it mattered. 

They had seen Ella together a few more times, and Sherlock had been once by himself. It had been difficult, but he had told her about… about the sex work. About Jacob. About the collar, and the drugs. She had helped him to see that the way he thought about it all, treated it, wasn’t healthy. He was going to work on forgiving himself - forgiving himself for everything he had done, because though he had made his own choices, he had been acting on false information. 

And that still hurt. After the dust had settled, he had felt overjoyed at the knowledge that he was not alone, that he was asexual, there was a word and a definition and forums and literature and songs even about what he was… but that feeling of hurt was probably never going to go away. Anger was still there too; anger at an education and social system that was failing its children so, so utterly. Abandoning them, like he had been abandoned, to work his way through the world not even knowing  _ what he was. _

John let him rant it out, more than once. He was a wall upon which he let Sherlock throw all of his vitriolic words, all of his long-repressed rage at the things he had done, and the things he had allowed others to do to him. John took it all, and Sherlock felt guilty, but John reminded him that he was also seeing Ella separately - and it was OK. It was all OK. 

They had started investigating the other side to all of this too, and that was as much a source of joy to Sherlock as the other was a source of frustration. They were working out, together, how exactly Sherlock enjoyed physical intimacy - and they were learning more about John in the process, too. 

For instance, his hair. He had explained to John that while having John’s hands card through his curls felt wonderful, pulling on it actually hurt. John had felt incredibly guilty upon hearing that, and it had been Sherlock’s turn to soothe and comfort. While doing so, he had shown John how he liked his head to be touched, by demonstrating on John - and John had melted like a piece of butter left on a warm window-ledge. 

“No one has ever done that for me before,” John had said, wonder in his tone after he came back around. 

“Then they were idiots,” Sherlock said, already planning how he was going to discover what else John might like, unknowingly. 

ASMR was a new revelation for both of them as well. Ella had suggested it, and Sherlock had been extremely skeptical until he put on John’s headphones and turned on one of the most popular videos from YouTube. An hour later, John had come to check on him, and Sherlock had stretched out a languid arm and dragged him into the bed next to him to cuddle. John soon worked out that listening to an ASMR video while getting a head massage, equalled one blissed-out and pliant consulting detective. 

The sunflowers kept being replaced. Sherlock never caught John at it, something John was incredibly smug about, but Sherlock was secretly pleased about it too - as he wasn’t sure what his reaction would be if he actually saw John bringing them into the flat. 

Couch cuddles became the norm, as did sleeping next to each other - though Sherlock was still just a little bit surprised every time he woke to find John still there. He still had that little voice in the back of his head telling him that this couldn’t possibly be enough for him, that he must be holding back, must be suffering somehow, staying with Sherlock like this… He was trying to stamp on that voice, snuff it out, but he knew that part of the problem was that he wasn’t a hundred percent fulfilled, either. He wanted to do more for John, but didn’t know how to tell him without setting off the, ‘you don’t have to’ conversation, which he was glad they were starting to put behind them. 

He decided he had to bring it up in one of their sessions with Ella. Ella always asked if there was anything he wanted to talk about, and usually he looked to John and John helped by explaining to her something that came up during the week, but this time…

“I want to talk about sex,” he said, before he could chicken-out. 

Ella smiled, not batting an eyelid. “Alright. That’s not an area you’ve previously shown an interest in discussing, Sherlock. May I ask - why today?” 

Valid question, Sherlock thought, and he looked over to John. John looked worried, but kept quiet. 

“There’s no special reason,” he said slowly. “It’s just… been on my mind, is all.” Ella let the silence linger - she was very good at those, the targeted silences. “There are… I want John to know…” Ella gestured towards John, and Sherlock huffed, but looked at him directly. “I want you to know… you don’t have to be so careful. We can do more than kissing. You don’t have to hold back, quite so much.”

“Sherlock…” John started, sounding pained. “I’m not, ‘holding back’, I’m being respectful. I don’t want to do anything that you don’t want to do…”

“But that’s it,  _ I do _ want to,” Sherlock said firmly. Now that the conversation was started, it seemed a lot easier. “I want to make you feel good. Doing that, makes me feel good, too.”

“But you don’t like it,” John pressed, glancing at Ella for support. 

“Not everything, no,” Sherlock agreed. “I don’t like…” he glanced at Ella too, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“These things can be difficult to talk about,” Ella said, rising and heading to her cabinets. “I actually have something the two of you might be interested in - it’s a couple’s quiz, designed to let you see in which areas you agree, and which to avoid.” She handed them each a copy. “The idea is you go through by yourself and you check off what applies to you, and then you come back together and compare.” Sherlock felt enormously relieved by this, but looking over at John, he still seemed worried. 

“But…” he looked at Sherlock apologetically. “I’m… look, I’m just going to say this, alright? I think this might work, help us to explain ourselves properly, but only… only if we’re both totally honest, right? Like… Sherlock, please don’t check things off just because you think I’ll check them off too. We can’t keep on like that.”

Sherlock nodded, though the comment stung a little. It was fair, after all. “Alright. But you don’t hold back, either. Don’t leave something blank if it’s something you really like.” John nodded, and though there was still some trepidation there, he seemed a bit more confident. 

They went to separate areas of the flat to fill out their forms as soon as they got back. There were all different sections - where did you like to be touched, what did you like to be called, what kinds of sexual acts were you happy to give and recieve, were you interested in BDSM and in what way… it took Sherlock quite a while to complete, as he mulled over each answer, but he was happy to see that John was taking an equally long time, as he was yet to come back down the stairs. 

When they finally did sit together, it seemed very… business-like. 

“This feels weird,” Sherlock offered, and John actually giggled. 

“Oh, thank god you said that. I thought it was just me,” John said, pulling his chair closer until they were pressed thigh to thigh. 

They set to it, going through each section, and there were plenty of surprises there. Sherlock had been sure that John was going to check off penetration as a must, for example, but he hadn’t. John seemed equally surprised at how many sex acts Sherlock was willing to give, as he was willing to receive almost none. 

“It just… doesn’t seem right to me, Sherlock,” John said softly, carefully. “You doing all those things for me, when you don’t like them yourself.” 

“John… I’m asexual,” he said, feeling a flicker of pride at having said that out loud. “To be honest, when I do those things for you, it’s not much different than giving you a massage, or examining the lines around your eyes. I don’t connect with it the same way that you do. It’s like… OK, if you said, ‘let’s go running together’, then I’d go with you. Not because I like it, but because I like you, and running with you would make you happy and be something we could do together. No, I don’t want to do it all the time, but it doesn’t mean  _ never.” _

John did not look convinced. 

“But then… I dunno, maybe this is just my problem. I just think I’d feel like it was… uneven. What can I do for you in return?” 

Sherlock smiled.  _ John. _

“You can give me a head massage, or lay with me and listen to ASMR. You can sit with me while I take a bath. You can take care of my hands, my face, my feet… those are all things that make me happy, John.” 

John had looked less worried at that. 

The final part which caused them a bit of confusion was the BDSM section. John had wanted to skip right past it, and obviously been a bit alarmed when Sherlock had insisted that they don’t. Sherlock had checked off one thing, and only one. 

_ “Willingness/Want to take on a submissive role in certain non-sexual situations,” _ John read out loud, puzzled but less panicky. “I… OK? You’ll have to explain that one a bit more to me, love.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. He had hovered his pencil over that box for a long time before deciding to just go for it, knowing that John would need an explanation. 

“Everywhere we go, out in the world, we are ‘Sherlock Holmes and John Watson’ - you know? There are certain expectations of us, whether they are based on reality or complete nonsense.” Sherlock waited for John to nod, though it did it rather unwillingly. “The fact of the matter is, John, that I look to you  _ all the time. _ Just… I have to pretend that I don’t. It’s safer for both of us, to play those roles. That way we can surprise people.” He played with the edges of the paper for a moment before pressing on. “So… sometimes, I would like… I would like to just,  _ let go. _ For you to be in charge... in charge of me.”

John had some kind of wary understanding on his face, but asked, “What would that look like, though? Like… literally, what would you want me to do?”

“Nothing so very different than you do now,” Sherlock said, grasping his hand. “It’s more about me - I want to act a little differently, sometimes. Not so… controlled. Not so in-charge. For example… sometimes when we are sitting on the couch together, what I really want…” He paused, and John squeezed his hand in reassurance. “I want… I want to get a cushion, and sit on the floor. That’s all,” he said quickly, when John looked about to protest. “That’s all - I just… I want to sit on the floor, next to your legs, and have your hand in my hair while we watch TV. There’s… it seems like it would be… comforting. To have you there. You’re so strong John, so much stronger than me, in some things. It makes me want to demonstrate it, physically, sometimes… I was alone, for a long time. I had to do everything myself, be strong by myself….”

John stared at their joined hands. 

“Too much?” Sherlock asked after a while. 

“No,” John responded immediately, and he hugged Sherlock to his side. “No,  _ Christ, _ no. Nothing you say could ever be too much, Sherlock.”

“So… maybe?” he asked, unsure. 

“We can definitely try,” John said, rubbing his arm. “Because… I honestly don’t know how I feel about it. I might not know until it’s happening. But will you be alright if we try it, and I don’t like it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Because… you heard me say it. You already know, so… if you don’t like it, that’s OK.” And he meant it, too. 

*********************************

That evening, Sherlock walked out of the kitchen with their tea. John had already started clicking through the channels, looking for the new Midsommer Murders. Sherlock put the tea on the coffee table, then looked speculatively at the couch cushion. John noticed him looking, but after a quick smile, he focused away from Sherlock and on the TV. Suddenly nervous, Sherlock wondered if this was a terrible idea… but John had said they could try…

Before he could lose his nerve, he grabbed the cushion, dropped it by John’s feet, and dropped down to sit cross-legged on top of it. Before he could work himself up too much with anxiety, John’s familiar fingers threaded carefully into his hair, and Sherlock felt his tight muscles begin to relax. John’s touch was tentative at first, and his channel-hopping had stopped, but the more Sherlock relaxed, the more confident the touch became. Soon, John was flicking through the channels again. He stopped once he found the right one. 

“Wait, haven’t we seen this one?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head back to look at John for a moment. John smiled in surprise - perhaps he had been thinking that Sherlock was going to be mute and still. It wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about keeping part of himself locked away, not anymore. It was… it was about giving more of himself up. 

“Uh… yeah, actually… Watch it again?” John asked, and Sherlock grinned, settling himself back against the couch. By the end of the episode, his head was propped up against John’s thigh, and he wondered as the credits rolled and John sat forward to give him a forehead kiss, if this was what happiness felt like.

******************************

A few nights later, Sherlock left the bathroom and forgot to turn the light off. The beam of light fell across John’s dozing body, and Sherlock felt so suddenly consumed with love for this man, this man who accepted him so completely, that he thought he might explode if he didn’t do something about it. 

Instead of walking around to his side of the bed, he stopped at the foot of it, then climbed up so he was kneeling over John’s feet. John made a snuffling sound in his half-asleep state, then looked around for him in confusion. His eyes widened when he saw his position. 

“Sherlock…”

“John… I love you. I love you so much. And… I want to do this for you. I want to have you in my mouth, I want to taste you, I want to see you come undone, because of how I make you feel. Can I do it John? Please?”

The indecision was clear on John’s face. Sherlock waited patiently, because this was part of them, now. This asking, and answering. No more guessing, no more assuming. You asked, and you waited, and you accepted the answer for what it was - nothing more. 

John looked at him, and Sherlock let him. He showed him the trust and the love and the calmness and the joy. He showed him everything there was to see, and was unafraid, because John had already seen it all. Slowly, the uncertain look fell off John’s face, and a gentle smile appeared instead. He reached for Sherlock, and Sherlock crawled forward and brought his body down until they lay flush against each other, lips seeking, finding, fitting. Sherlock revelled in it for a while, but the  _ want  _ was starting to course through him. He  _ wanted.  _

“Can I, John?” he asked, breathless against John’s lips. One more searching gaze, and John breathed back,

“Yes.”

Sherlock moved slowly down John’s body, appreciating every sigh, every twitch, every touch of John’s hands on his shoulders and head in response to Sherlock’s tasting touches. John kept very still, and Sherlock realized how different this was from their previous encounters. How much he trusted John, and how much John trusted him in return. It threatened to make him too emotional to continue, so he pushed it aside for a moment, and continued his gentle exploration. John was a revelation - unmapped skin just begging for Sherlock to lick, nibble, and kiss. John’s breathing changed, but he was still very quiet, and when Sherlock finally pulled down his shorts and took his cock into his mouth, Sherlock’s name on John’s lips sounded like a prayer. 

It didn’t last long, that first time. Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to hold back, and John apparently felt the same, as soon enough those panting cries grew erratic, the gasps of Sherlock’s name more desperate. When Sherlock finally swallowed him down completely and began to hum, John obviously couldn’t help but move a little; tiny rocking motions further into Sherlock’s mouth that made Sherlock glow with pride. He was giving this to John, this moment of leaving-the-self, and John now knew the gift for what it was. A moment later, and John lifted his head, looked down to Sherlock, locked eyes with him, and came. It too was quieter than previously, but he came with a breathtaking intensity. Sherlock swallowed everything John gave up, wanting, wanting,  _ wanting… _

Later, after they had kissed, after John had whispered,  _ I love you _ into Sherlock’s hair, his cheeks, his ears, his neck... after John had fallen almost apologetically asleep, Sherlock lay there, basking. He imagined them both, outside in the warm air, laying just like this; John sleeping and spent and happy, and Sherlock awake and content and calm. They were laying in a field of sunflowers - completely hidden from the world, but able to look up and see the clear, blue sky. There was a warm breeze blowing, and the flowers rustled with pleasant whispers… 

He blinked, dispelling the image, and rested his head against John’s chest. John was already sound asleep, waiting for him. Sherlock smiled to himself in the dark, and closed his eyes. 

_ Follow John. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've mulled this final note over for a while. There's so much I could say - about consent, about asexuality, about communication... but I think (I hope) that's it's all here, in this little fanfic in a sea of amazing fanfics. 
> 
> What I will say, is that it's true - you are not alone, though you might feel like it. You are not broken. You are deserving of care, you are deserving of love. It can take time to learn that, to accept that. Spend the time: it's worth it. 
> 
> Soundtrack: Katy Perry, "Unconditionally"  
> Selected Lyrics:  
> Come just as you are to me  
> Don't need apologies  
> Know that you are worthy  
> I'll take your bad days with your good  
> Walk through the storm, I would  
> I do it all because I love you  
> I love you  
> There is no fear now, let go and just be free...
> 
> Let me know what you thought - I love hearing from you <3

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, you might also like my fic, "To Be Human", a thriller with an Ace!Sherlock and another happy ending. Sequel to that one is coming soon.
> 
> I also have various other completely fluffy pieces, have a look around my author page and subscribe if you'd like future updates ☺️


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